


On The Edge Of Tomorrow

by lapsus_calami



Series: Superviral [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fair Warning: this is the first part of a series that may never be finished, Gen, Teenage Dean and Sam, The Walking Dead AU, Zombie AU, basically ten chapters of sam and dean fighting zombies and bad people, this story is complete though, unfinished series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 03:50:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6454270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John goes missing on a supply run to a city, Sam and Dean follow the trail he left behind and find more trouble than just the walking dead. The most dangerous thing in the world may not be the undead but those that are still living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I wrote this story a long time ago (at least a year or two ago), but just recently reread it since it was one of the few .pdf documents on my tablet when I found myself bored at work.  
> This was originally planned as the first in a series and at some point I may still write the rest because I do love my outlined ideas and story arc. However, I might not (but still feel like sharing this part) and if I do it won't be until after I complete my current Teen Wolf series (which if you've seen my masterlist you'll know that might take awhile). 
> 
> So, final fair warning, although this story is complete there are some plot points that remain open at the end.
> 
> Updates will be daily.

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

_Four Years Ago_

“Dad! When is Mom coming home!” Sam shouted tipping back his desk chair back to balance on two legs as if being that tad bit closer to the door would help his father, who was lounging in the living room down stairs, hear him better.

“Dude, keep it down will ya,” his brother yelled from his room down the hallway still sounding a little hoarse and congested from the cold he’d been nursing for the past week since their little excursion in the park fountain that had resulted in them being grounded. “Some people are actually trying to work here.”

“No talking, boys. Your mother will be home soon,” the authoritative rumble of their father floated up the stairs brooking no arguments. Sam let his chair thud back to the floor with a short sigh. Mom had been due home about an hour ago and Sam was getting restless having already studied more than enough. Both he and Dean had tests tomorrow and so Mom, with some input from Dad, had decided the fitting punishment for this week of their two weeks grounding was strict confinement to their separate rooms for study each evening until Mom got home. So each day after school for the past week Sam and Dean had trooped into the house and to their separate rooms where Dad would find and keep them when he arrived home.

Sam knew for a fact the room confinement drove Dean bonkers, but he had to admit that the forced time where Dean was restricted in his options of entertainment meant he probably spent more time on his homework and studying than usual. Despite Sam’s constant little brother ribbing, he knew Dean wasn’t stupid. His brother just needed a little more effort to focus; personally Sam thought Dean probably had ADHD like he’d read about online once. Dean’s behavior certainly fit the symptoms, though when Sam had brought it up to Dad it had been brushed off and Dad had stated firmly there was nothing wrong with Dean just because he wasn’t like Sam.

Sam sighed again shutting the folder on his spelling list. The words were seared into his brain like they had been over two days ago. Dean, he knew, was studying for an English test, which was his worst subject. He also knew Dean needed a good grade on this test to pass the class and had been studying all week with more dedication than Sam had ever seen Dean give anything besides Dad’s weird marine training. Sam stood up, pushing his chair in carefully and beginning to pace around the room looking for something to do. He’d already finished his homework, studied more than he needed to, cleaned his room, reorganized all his bookshelves by genre, read his two newest books, and folded all his laundry so he was probably going to be rather bored tomorrow unless he and Dean could convince Mom and Dad to mitigate their sentence.

He crossed his room, peeking his head out the door and wondering if he could sneak to Dean’s room without Dad noticing. He could help Dean study; surely his brother would appreciate the help. Sam knew Dean always studied better with someone there to keep him on track, though whether his big brother would admit that or not was another question entirely. He could probably make it. Dad would most likely not come upstairs to check on them relying instead on his boy’s respect of his authority (which worked great with Dean but not so much with Sam), and when Mom got home she would just call up the stairs that they were free from their prisons and they would go bounding down with both parents just assuming they came from separate rooms.

Decision made, Sam edged out of his room tossing a slightly apprehensive glance at the top of the stairs because as sure as he was that Dad wouldn’t be coming up the stairs it would be just his luck if the old man decided to make a room call right now. He moved stealthily down the hallway grinning as he saw Dean’s door was slightly ajar. Quietly peering through the crack, he could see Dean at his desk on the adjacent wall and hear his soft humming and tapping of the pencil to what Sam was pretty sure was a Led Zeppelin song.

Smile growing ever larger, Sam tip-toed into the room, silently thanking his father for keeping the hinges well oiled, as he moved across the room ever so slowly entirely intent on scaring his brother. Five feet away, three feet, this was it, the time he would _finally_ get Dean back for all the times he’d pulled crap on Sam, two feet, he stretched out his arms to grab—

“Tough luck, dude, I know you’re there. Cut it out and go back to your room before you get us in trouble,” Dean said suddenly, keeping his voice pitched low to avoid Dad’s super hearing.

Sam let his arms drop with a groan and rolled his eyes taking three quick steps to the left to flop down on the bed with a pout, completely ignoring the latter part of Dean’s last sentence. “How do you _do_ that?” he whined. He could never sneak up on Dean. No matter where they were or what Dean was doing, even when his brother was sound asleep, he seemed to always know when Sam got close.

“I have eyes in the back of my head,” Dean deadpanned, his eyes on the front of his head never leaving the page before them. “Now seriously, man, get out of my room. I have to study.”

Sam frowned but simply shifted to find a more comfortable position. “You’ve been studying for hours already, Dean.”

Dean huffed and seemed to hunch further over his desk. “Yeah, well, I’m no genius unlike you, Einstein, so I actually have to work for my good grades,” he snapped.

Sam sighed and fidgeted for a moment. His brother was on edge, he could tell. Dean was only ever short and snippy with Sam when he was bothered by something he was feeling overwhelmed with. Or when Sam interrupted him and a girl. Sam shuddered, banishing the images that thought provoked and picked at Dean’s ratty looking blanket. “Well, maybe I can help you study?”

Dean only grunted a noncommittal answer and made no effort to elaborate. Sam sighed again, frowning as he swept a calculating gaze over his brother. Dean’s light brown hair was sticking up at virtually every angle, likely because of how many times Dean had run his hand through his hair in frustration. His jaw was clenched and his grip on his pencil was, as Mom called it, choking the cat. All and all he was looking rather dejected and exhausted, like he was pursuing his studying only through sheer force of willpower.

Sam reached over, having to stretch to snag the papers sitting in front of his brother. Dean smacked his hand down flat shooting Sam a withering glare. “I don’t need your help, Sammy.”

But Sam was stubborn and so he simply tugged harder to pull the papers free from under Dean’s hand. He chose to take it as a testament to how drained Dean was when his brother put up very little fight about it. He peered at the papers intently reading the heading first then skimming through the rest of the pages. “Okay so your test is only on _Romeo and Juliet_?” he asked.

Dean leaned back in his chair and nodded looking a tad displeased. “I assume you’ve read it?”

Sam nodded. “Over the summer. I was in a Shakespeare phase.”

Dean shook his head but chuckled. “Figures.”

“What?” Sam asked defensively.

“Dude, only you would read Shakespeare for _fun_ over the _summer._ ”

They spent the next hour going over Dean’s study guide, Sam explaining a little more in depth some of the finer points the teacher didn’t cover as well but Sam remembered from one analysis discussion he’d read, and the two of them coming up with some catchy mnemonic devices to help Dean remember the highlights. Sam defended Shakespeare’s literary choices and Dean condemned them using twentieth century logic. Sam cited the themes and deeper meanings behind the story and Dean argued against the fact that a three-day whirlwind romance between two teenagers that resulted in six dead people should be regarded as one of the greatest tales of love.

By the time Mom finally showed up Dean was smiling and laughing a little easier, and Sam was sure he was also feeling more confident in his ability to pass the test.

The boys bounded down the stairs, racing each other to the bottom which ended when Dean grabbed Sam around the middle, tickling him mercilessly before spinning him around and tossing him back up to the third stair while Dean raced to the kitchen. Sam sprinted after him, nearly running into his brother’s back when Dean halted right inside the kitchen door.

“I’m fine, John. Really. The doctors looked the bite over and cleaned it out. There’s nothing to worry about,” Mom was saying quietly before cutting herself off as Dean and Sam hit the kitchen doorway.

“What happened to your arm?” Dean asked, gaze zeroing on the stark white bandage on Mom’s forearm.

“Nothing, sweetie,” Mom replied. “Just a little accident. I picked up some dinner on the way home since I was late. Help your father set the table, will you Dean? Sam, you can help me dish up the food.”

Dinner was delicious, a treat really since they rarely ordered out except for special occasions. Mom’s bandage and accident was forgotten in light conversation encompassing work and school, both Mom and Dad having more input on the _Romeo and Juliet_ thing with Dad siding with Dean and Mom siding with Sam on the play’s merits and shortcomings.

Afterwards Sam and Dean helped clean up the table and kitchen before settling down for a bit of television. Following the usual schedule of evenings, after television was readying themselves for bed, then hugs and kisses (on Sam’s part, not Dean’s because he was far to old for kisses goodnight and the hugs were becoming questionable) goodnight before wrapping themselves in their blankets and drifting off to sleep, alarms set to wake them tomorrow for school. Sam fell asleep easily, content with the evening, satisfied with the knowledge that he’d ace the upcoming test and looking forward to the weekend. Mom had promised a trip to the zoo; he was thrilled and he knew Dean was too though his brother was stubbornly maintaining the aloof teenager façade of being too cool for family outings. Sam drifted off thinking of Dean, Mom, Dad, elephants and monkeys.

A crash woke him up later in the night. His mind was still foggy as he stumbled from his bed, poking his head out into the hallway and seeing Dean do the same from his room. Dean mirrored his puzzled look as another thud sounded from their parent’s room. Another crash and a short yell had a look of alarm crossing Dean’s features as he strode from his room, motioning to Sam to stay put, and called out softly for their parents while approaching the master bedroom.

He was a couple feet away and a leaden feeling of dread was solidifying in Sam’s gut when a particularly loud crash and screech had Dean lunging for the door. Sam jumped in shock as it was thrown open, Dad barreling out barely managing to avoid running into Dean as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Sam’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest and the hallway became a myriad of shouting from his brother and father, and bone-chilling tunnel of bangs and screeches from behind the door to his parent’s bedroom.

The next thing Sam knew was his dad shoving Dean at him and yelling, “Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go!”

And Dean looked terrified which scared Sam more than his father’s tone or the screeching, but a resolve settled over his brother’s features and Dean grabbed his hand pulling him downstairs fast enough to make Sam stumble.

He followed without question, but a million of them were pouring though his mind, blocked somewhere between there and his mouth by the lump in his throat and ragged breathing.

Dean drug him outside, letting the screen door slam behind them loudly in a way that would have had Mom admonishing him at any other time but right now Sam can’t hear anything besides the awful screeching which he has deduced she must be making. Because if she was not the one screeching then why wasn’t she out here with him and Dean? Dad would have sent her outside with them if he could. Sam’s vision went blurry, and he didn’t even register he was crying until Dean pulled him close as they stood just off the porch. Sam heard Dean’s heart racing a mile a minute beneath his ear and could feel the harshness of his brother’s breathing that matched his own.

The noise filtering out from their house sounded like a domestic fight and Sam knew they would have some explaining to do with the neighbors, but for the life of him he could not figure out what was happening and Dean was still refusing to answer any of the questions Sam managed to plead out, his only reply to tighten his hold on his little brother.

The sound of shattering glass split the night like a nuclear bomb in its suddenness, and Sam jerked in fright at the flash of white that sailed down from the upstairs window. He didn’t get a closer look at just _what_ it was before Dean was once again dragging him away.

This time it was only around the side of the house but Dean pushed Sam against the siding, firmly planting a hand over Sam’s mouth. “Don’t make a sound,” Dean mouthed more than said though Sam could still detect a shaky tremor in Dean’s quiet tone.

But he froze all the same locking gazes with Dean and finding Dean’s stare steadier and full of a boundless resolve. He clung to that feeling, that knowledge that, whatever was happening, Dean was here with him and would keep him safe. Throughout his childhood Dean had always looked out for him from things as benign as learning to ride his bike to the ruthless bullies of the playground. Dean was always there, steady and sure, just as he was now.

Sam took a slow deep breath through his nose, making sure to keep it silent, and tried to listen to the noises in the night around them. There was an odd shuffling sound from the side of the house. And the crunch of glass as if someone were walking over the remains of the broken window. A harsh, ragged breathing punctuated with odd clicking like that of teeth clacking together.

Then there was more thumps and thuds from inside followed by the sound of feet on the steps of the porch and the screen door dragging against the floor the way it always did when someone unfamiliar with it tried to push it in instead of pulling it out.

Dean relaxed the tiniest bit and removed his hand from Sam’s mouth. A multitude of crashes and the breaking of dishes sliced through the night, and Dean was suddenly moving him again. Tugging him over to the space between the shed and the fence, pushing him down to his knees and ordering him, in a tone reminiscent of their father, to stay put and not come out until Dean came to get him.

Then he was gone and Sam was huddled in the small gap between the shed and the fence, sheltered and hidden by the shadows, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, shaking and trembling from fear and mind screaming with questions.

The report of a gunshot had him covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. He expected more but there was only ever the one.

A few moments later a pale and shaking Dean fetched him from his sheltered gap, dragging him around the back of the house and depositing him in the back of the Impala. He didn’t tell Sam to stay put that time but Sam knew anyway.

A little while after that and Dean came back, climbing in the Impala with him, saying nothing but immediately pulling Sam up close against him. Sam didn’t complain, clinging to his older brother in a way he hadn’t in years since he’d gotten ‘too old’. Right then Sam didn’t care. He was scared and was pretty sure Dean was too.

Sam saw light begin flickering in one of the rooms of the house, yellow and orange, flashing and growing. It took a Sam a moment to realize that it was fire; his house was _burning_. Within minutes it was a blazing inferno and Dad stumbled out onto the porch, stopping at the base of the steps and staring at house. He was far too close and Sam swallowed heavily calling out to him.

Dean untangled himself from Sam, leaving the car door open as he rushed across the yard. Sam could feel the heat of the flames from even this distance and sat paralyzed as Dean grabbed Dad’s arm to drag him back from house. Dad let Dean pull him, and Sam only managed to force himself out of the car once they had reached the Impala.

Sam pressed himself against Dad’s side, thankful for the arm that wrapped around him though the gesture felt a little numb. Too short a time later, though Sam had no idea how long it actually was, Dad was forcing him and Dean into the back of the car again. Dean wordlessly slid in, once more opening his arms for Sam to cling to him.

There were sirens and flashing lights for the longest time and Sam nearly burst with the want to know what was going on but Dean kept a tight grip on him and refused to budge or speak so Sam stayed put and stayed quiet. And they were in that same position hours later when the house had burned to nothing but sickly black skeletal remains, the sirens and flashing lights left, and Dad climbed in the driver’s seat and pulled out onto the street.

Sam didn’t have the courage to ask where Mom was.

He figured the tightening of Dean’s arms around him was answer enough.

* * *

_Four Years Later_

John scrubbed a hand over his face trying to rub away the exhaustion as he continued to scout for a place to stop for the night that might also have supplies to replenish their dangerously low stock. He glanced in the rearview mirror, a sad but fond smile gracing his lips at the sight of his sleeping children. Dean was collapsed against the window, cradled in the niche between the seat and the car door, a pained grimace present even in sleep. It had been a close call the other day, too close.

Rounding that building corner to find his son with blood pouring from his arm and an infected on top of him had been heart stopping. John had frozen for a split second before Sam’s yell had jolted him back into action. He’d swiftly pulled the infected off Dean, snapping its neck before throwing himself on to the ground next to Dean and telling Sam to go fetch the first aid kit from the car.

Sam had protested at first, asking over and over, “Is it a bite, Dad? Is he bit? Dad, is he bit?” John had raised his voice then, ordering Sammy to go get the goddamned first aid kit. He didn’t know if Dean was bit and wanted to figure it out without Sammy falling to pieces next to him. Sam had stumbled back but obligingly took off in the direction of the Impala.

John turned his attention to Dean then, softening his tone to a gentle coaxing as he pried Dean’s fingers from the blood covered arm. Dean had tightly informed him that it was not a bite, but he’d cut it on a protruding part of rusty metal when Infected had pushed him backwards. John had let his eyes close in a moment of silent thanks to a God he had long ago stopped believing in. Then he had opened them and faced the very real danger of infection from the rusted metal because neither of his boys had anything resembling tetanus shots anymore and they were running low on antibiotics.

John had cleaned and bandaged the long and deep slice on his son’s arm up quickly once Sam had returned with the first aid kit. Then he’d pumped Dean full of antibiotics and piled them all in the Impala before burning rubber out of that godforsaken small town.

It had been too close, but John was facing another problem now.

He’d given Dean all of their antibiotics. The kid had protested, vehemently, but John had been unwavering and Dean had finally caved and taken them. He was out in four days. The fifth day Dean had developed a low-grade fever and his arm was so sore he could barely move it.

Now, Dean slept fitfully, a sheen of sweat coating his skin and dampening his hair. Sam was curled against Dean’s chest protectively cradling Dean’s injured arm as he monitored his brother’s condition periodically.

If finding Dean in that street under an Infected was a heart stopping terror then watching him slowly succumb to common infection was a slow throbbing terror that refused to fade. It was a familiar fear. An amplified version of the fear he always had when he left the boys alone to scout or when the boys went off on their own. The same fear he’d felt in the months following Mary’s death when Dean refused to talk and Sam clung to him and Dean with a constant look of distress.

Four years into this apocalypse, they were somehow all still alive. But every day, every damn day, they faced the very real possibility of loosing one of the people closest to them. Four goddamned years he had been able to keep his boys safe. There had been close calls over the years, of course there had been. More close calls than he cared to admit or remember with Infected. A close call with Dean when he’d fallen through a rotted floor and another with Sammy when the kid had caught the flu and had a hard time shaking it off. John had gone into a city then, places they usually avoided, to get Sammy’s medication. He’d had a close call himself in Atlanta, and in that split second when he was absolutely sure he was a goner he’d thought of his boys, of Sammy fevered and delirious and Dean trying to be strong but so obviously frightened.

Now the situation was reversed but there was no chance of Dean beating this on his own. Without antibiotics Dean was as good as dead and the thought terrified him. He and Sammy couldn’t loose Dean; Dean was their rock, the glue that held them together, kept John and Sam focused and in good spirits as much as possible. Dean was their light in this dark Hell.

Following Mary’s death they’d all be shaken to the core and as the world fell to pieces around them and society crumbled, John, Dean and Sam barely kept themselves afloat. John’s world narrowed to protecting his boys but he knew he was failing as a father, unable to focus, to reassure or pay attention to their emotional needs. Dean was silent and Sam was angry but scared. John was floundering. So he did what he knew, he kept his boys safe and he trained them mercilessly to defend themselves.

It was during another close call, a different one, that Dean became their rock and light. A little over a year after Mary’s death Sammy had been grabbed by a desperate drifter while they were scavenging a small town for supplies. John had been caught off guard. The man had grabbed Sammy before he could react and John was left with no shot to take without risk of the man hurting Sam.

He’d been pleading with the man, frantically racketing his brain for a way out of the situation. The man was getting antsy, and John had felt the control slipping away to the terrifying possibility that Sam wasn’t making it out of this alive.

And then Dean had shot the man. The hiss of the arrow had been near silent but the dull thud and sickening squelch as the arrow embedded itself in the man’s brain had been deafening to John’s ears. Sam had screamed as the man jerked and dropped behind him. Before John could even process what the hell had happened, Dean had run out from beside one the buildings, crossbow once more slung across his back and grabbed Sam asking over and over if he was okay.

That was the moment Dean started talking again after a year of silence. And from then on Dean pulled them together and kept them going. So really John should thank that poor, dead, drifter with a hole in his brain for giving John his son back.

Up ahead an overgrown driveway came into view, and John turned off the paved road slowing the Impala as the ground got rough. Sam sat up a bit, still carefully holding Dean’s arm. Dean stirred but otherwise didn’t wake.

“Did you find somewhere to stop?” Sam asked sullenly. He was always grouchy when his brother’s health was anything but good and John couldn’t blame him. But the moodiness and constant questioning did quite a number on his patience.

John sighed. “Of course, Sam. Why else would we be stopping?”

Sam huffed and John could hear him begin talking quietly to Dean, attempting to rouse his fevered brother. Sam had Dean slightly coherent by the time John let the Impala roll to a stop next to a half collapsed and rotting porch. He pulled out his pistol, checked his magazine, tucked an extra in his pocket and clicked the safety off.

“Stay in the car while I clear the house,” he ordered climbing out and making sure he got an affirmative from his youngest son before carefully ascending the stairs to the old farmhouse.

He nudged the slightly crooked screen door open with his foot, entering the two-story house with his .45 ready for any Infected that might jump out at him. The door led into the dining room with an open floor plan showing the kitchen that was existing in a state of disarray. John could see several cans behind a slightly open door and let out a sigh of relief. It seemed he might have had the luck to stumble on a house that had yet to be scavenged. He stepped quickly into the living room clearing it before heading to the back of the house and clearing a washing room and small powder room. He then crept up the dark stairwell, bordered as it was on both sides by walls that were probably loadbearing, at the center of the house. He cleared the first bedroom on the right, which looked like it had been set up like the master bedroom. It too appeared to have been hurriedly abandoned with clothes strewn about and drawers hanging open.

In one corner John noticed a scattered pile of photographs and albums, several open and spilling pictures onto the floor. Shifting through, John frowned as he stared at family photos spanning across the lives of the children that had lived here. A young boy and two girls with smiling parents. John huffed and shook his head, consciously dispelling the emotions stirring in his chest as he left the room to clear the rest of the second floor. The room across the hall must have belonged to the two teenaged girls, painted a soft purple and containing two beds. Like the master room clothes and belongings were strewn about but there was also an air of it having been a mess long before it had been abandoned.

The second room on the right was the toddler’s room, painted a deep blue and decorated with racecars. It reminded him of Dean’s old room from when he was little and John let himself imagine for a moment the joy of the child that had lived in this room before it became too much. The pang in his chest was painful enough that John wrenched the door closed as he left vowing to not open it again.

The bathroom was also clear and had a deep tub, which would be three thousand kinds of awesome if he and the boys could get enough water from somewhere. There was a promising possibility with the springhouse he had seen outside. He checked the last room, a plain guest room that still looked perfectly put together aside from the layers of dust.

He trotted back downstairs quickly once more carefully navigating his way down the rickety porch stairs. Rounding the car he helped Sam maneuver Dean out of the Impala and adjusted Sam’s grip on his brother. It was a good thing Sam had been sprouting up recently even without the balanced nutrition. He was nearly surpassing Dean’s height now, much to the elder’s displeasure, but it did make Sam helping Dean inside the house a much easier task.

“There’s a guest bedroom at the end of the hallway upstairs. Help him up there and stay inside. I’m going to scout out the springhouse and around the area a bit,” John said.

Sam simply nodded and began the slow trip inside with Dean, carefully navigating both himself and Dean up the faulty stairs and through the door. John watched until the screen door closed behind them before turning away.

His search of the surrounding area turned up nothing of alarm or interest. The springhouse was clear and blessedly still had water running so, after completing his preliminary scouting, John hauled several gallons inside and was pleased to discover the stove still worked as long as he manually lit it. After he had a couple full pots on their way to boiling for sanitization, he fetched the bags needed from the Impala and headed upstairs to check on Sam and Dean.

Dean was once again asleep, curled up in the center of the bed with Sam perched next to him. John frowned and dug thorough the bag for the first aid kit kneeling beside the bed to check Dean’s cut.

Dean didn’t so much as twitch as John removed the bandage revealing the nearly six-inch gash marring his right arm from the elbow down. The flesh was red and inflamed, the wound leaking garishly yellow puss around a half-assed looking scab, and angry red lines were spider-webbing out from the cut. The odor was noticeably foul as well and John tramped down on his revulsion and fear trying to retain a clinical air for his sake as well as Sam’s.

“That looks really bad, Dad,” Sam whispered, whether out of fear of voicing the fact or disturbing his brother, John didn't know.

“The infection is spreading to his lymph system,” John said. “I have water boiling downstairs, check on it, will you? Bring up a pot if it is.”

Sam nodded and left the room as John began the painful process of attempting to clean the wound. He dabbed at it with disinfectant questioning the merit of doing so and watching his son’s expression carefully for signs of discomfort. Dean’s features pinched a little but he didn’t respond otherwise. John laid a hand on his forehead checking his temperature. It seemed higher than before but didn't appear to be dangerously high just yet. Hopefully John and Sam would be able to keep it down before reaching that point.

Sam returned carrying a pot and John motioned for him to sit it on the nightstand to let it cool a bit before he used it to finish cleaning out Dean’s cut. He bandaged it once more hating the stark white against his son’s skin.

John and Sam worked to settle into the house more, methodically combing through the building to search for supplies, organizing what they found and setting up defenses. Sam heated canned beans for supper and they even managed to wake Dean enough for him to eat half a bowl.

They all slept in the guest room, Sam on the bed with Dean and John on the floor with a mattress dragged from the girl’s room. Dean seemed worse off the next day. His fever spiked and Sam had even more trouble to get him awake. John tried harder to flush the infection from his son’s body, but it was abundantly clear to him now that he would need to leave to find antibiotics.

Sam seemed to know even before John opened his mouth. Sitting cross-legged on the bed next to his brother, the young teen regarded him with a carefully structured blank expression. “You’re going to a city, aren’t you?”

John simply nodded. He’d never left Sam alone like this before. Sure he wouldn’t be alone, but Dean wasn’t able to take care of anyone right now. Sam would be the one in charge this time, the one solely responsible, and the knowledge twisted John’s stomach. It wasn’t that John thought Sam wasn’t able to do it, just that he desperately wished Sam didn’t have to.

John packed quickly and Sam came downstairs to see him off. His expression was clear but John could see the worry and fear in his baby’s big hazel eyes, and he cursed the world for forcing Sam to grow up far faster than was kind. For all the differences Sam and John clashed over, Sam was just a child.

Sam hugged him tightly; it was abrupt but John wrapped his arms around his boy pulling him in tight. “I’ll be two days,” John said, throwing as much conviction behind his words as he could muster. “Pittsburgh ain’t far, Sammy. Two days, that’s all. Watch over your brother.” And damn it all to Hell if it didn’t feel strange to be saying that to Sam instead of Dean.

Sam stepped back and nodded. “Yes, sir. You know I will.”

John got in the car, swallowing heavily. He turned the key in the ignition and started the Impala down the overrun driveway before he could loose his nerve. Glancing in the rearview mirror he watched as Sam shrank until he was lost behind the foliage of the trees and took a deep breath to steady his nerves, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach, and beat away the feeling that this would be the last time he saw his boys alive.

He grit his teeth and pulled out on the road heading for Pittsburgh, the purr of the Impala comforting him slightly as she picked up speed. His boys were trained well. Sammy was determined, and Dean was stubborn. They’d be fine.


	2. Chapter Two

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

 Dean was on fire. At least he was reasonably sure he was on fire. He could feel his skin burning and melting on his bones and a deep throbbing that could only be flames attacking every muscle in his body. His arm was the worst though, and he could only hazard a guess that it must be the appendage closest to whatever flame was cooking him.

Because he was most definitely being roasted alive. He wondered where Sammy was and a vague idea to get up and look for him crossed Dean’s mind before he was rudely reminded of his state of being aflame roaring back to the forefront. He settled for calling for his brother, sure Sam would answer and concerned when he didn’t. Dean struggled to rein in his frying brain, sure that if he could just string together a coherent thought he’d remember where his baby brother was. Dad was going to be so pissed if Dean lost Sam in the fire.

He frowned, really not liking the flames licking at his skin. It was too hot and he wanted to move away. Because really, he shouldn't stand so close to the house while it burned. In fact he should be in the car because that's where Sammy was, wasn't it? Sam was in the Impala because that’s where Dad had told Dean to put him. Dad had told him to stay in the car too, but Dad was too close to the fire. Like Dean. Too close. He was burning. Could smell the scorched hair and flesh. Beautiful blonde hair going up in flames and flesh charring to melt and reveal bone beneath.

Dean hated that smell. It turned his stomach in an awful way, and he tried desperately to turn his nose away, to block the god-awful stench out, but nothing worked. The odor crawled up his nose, seeping into the very pores of his skin and latching onto him permanently.

His stomach twisted and coiled as he gagged on the almost physical presence of the smell. Beautiful golden hair going up in flames and creamy skin mottled with red spots and melting into black. Oozing off into puddles. Beautiful sunshine hair charred to ash.

God the smell. He was burning. Could feel himself melting, could _smell_ it.

* * *

“Dean! Dean stop struggling,” Sam said, voice rising in octaves and catching as he tried to calm his brother. Tears burned in his eyes as he struggled to keep Dean from thrashing on the bed. Dean was weakened for sure, but whatever was making him toss and turn was enough to motivate some hidden reserves of strength.

Dean’s fever had spiked again, to the point where he noticeably too hot with just a touch. In fact it felt like Dean was burning beneath his hands, and Sam was incredibly out of depth with how to handle it. Sam had stripped Dean down to his boxers and soaked towels in cool water to lay along his body but Dean’s constant motion meant they were tangled, twisted and failing to help lower his temperature.

If Sam couldn’t get the fever to break Dean would be in real trouble, but he had no idea how to accomplish such a feat with no help or direction. Not for the first time Sam wished desperately for the sound of the Impala to come floating down the driveway, but Dad had only been gone a little over a day so Sam couldn't expect any help.

“S’my. S’m. ‘S too hot. Too close,” Dean mumbled and Sam leaned forward hoping against all hope Dean was somehow waking up.

“Dean. Dean, it’s okay. Please stop. Dean?” Sam pleaded. Dean made no response only laboring on in breathing and tossing his head from side to side. He moaned again and Sam swore it sounded like he was calling for Mom, but he quickly shook off the idea trying once more to cover his brother with the cool towels.

Dean jerked his head away, gagging slightly, and Sam’s heart leapt to his throat as Dean convulsed.

“Shit. Shit! What do I do?” Sam shouted, not caring in the least that he sounded hysterical. There was no one to call him on it. “What do I do, Dean? What do I do!”

He pulled on his hair trying to force himself to calm down and think clearly. He needed to lower Dean’s fever. He had no medicine and the towels weren’t working. If now was four years ago he’d take Dean to the hospital but that wasn’t an option.

He gasped in some air, trying to focus and slow his breathing, but keeping his eyes trained on his distressed brother. He remembered a story. One his mother had told him a few times of how when Dean was little he’d had a high fever and she hadn’t been able to take him to the doctors and none of the medicine had been helping. So she’s run a tepid bath and kept Dean in the tub to cool him down.

Sam had a tub. And he had cold water.

Action decided, Sam took one more deep steading breath, murmured to his brother to hold on and rushed outside.

* * *

Dean slid to a stop as he ran back inside, shocked into motionlessness at the sight that greeted him. His mother stood before him, white nightgown torn in places and spotted with red. Her head was cocked to the side at an unnatural angle, her jaw gnashing together as if chewing on an invisible piece of meat. Her normally bright blue eyes were dull and half covered by eyelids, her blonde hair cascading in soft curls around her shoulders and down her back.

She was breathing short and fast, an odd low growl rumbling from her chest as she turned slowly to stare at him.

“Mom?” Dean breathed, knowing that whatever stood before him wasn’t his mother but asking anyway.

The creature snarled and lunged forward. Dean tried to force himself to move but was frozen in place. A strong arm grabbed him and jerked him aside just as an ear shattering gunshot blasted next to his head.

Mom’s head snapped sideways, half her face exploding in red as she dropped to the floor like a puppet with cut strings, crumpling down to sprawl on the carpet, the disfigurement from the shot gun making her expression a grotesque grimace.

Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away even as the flames sprang to life, engulfing her hair and night dress before moving on to devour the skin and lick at the pearl white bones beneath.

He screamed as the flames reached out for him, grabbing hungrily at his clothes and racing along to liquefy the flesh from his bones. He screamed as the heat dried him to a crisp, picking every last morsel from his skeleton. The world faded to black as his eyes oozed down his dissolving face and the stench of scorched hair and flesh filled his searing nostrils, his sense of smell being the only one that refused to perish in the flames.

The heat intensified beyond all measure stealing all the breath from his slowly charring lungs, spiking to the point that he felt nothing but white-hot agony. Hours passed and Dean writhed in pain. The heat still licked his skin but it was cold now; a heat like Hell fire, so hot it was freezing. His blood was boiling in his veins, racing through him and spreading the fire.

The icy-hot heat lapped at his skin like waves, stabbing against the fire burning within his body. He was drowning, smothering in the torture that stole his breath away.

* * *

Dean slipped in and out of consciousness, existing in a half state. The fire had retreated a bit to where it was just licking at his body instead of engulfing it. He was aware of soft murmurings floating around him coupled with something cool being dragged across his sensitive skin. The coolness was nice but it felt like a wire sponge scraping across him and he tried to move away. He couldn’t though, chained down as he was against an unyielding surface. The soft murmuring continued along with the grating and Dean let it wash away in a suffocating haze.

* * *

The fire was back, marching along his veins and it was devouring his arm. It was crawling and withering, exerting an agonizing pressure. His arm was going to combust or maybe simply be consumed.

Picked apart piece by piece until nothing was left. And after his arm was gone the fire would move on, consuming him limb by limb until he was nothing but a molten skeleton left behind in the charred remains of a burned house.

* * *

Dean hadn’t been aware that he hadn’t been aware. What a confusing thought but he mustn’t have been aware because he was just now _becoming_ aware. His head felt fuzzy and heavy, but he was no longer on fire, which was a welcome relief. Or at least he thought it was.

He was lying on something soft with a heavy pressure on his torso and legs restricting movement. He shifted experimentally trying to explore his range of motion, which seemed rather limited, and was exhausting. He ditched the idea of moving, settling instead for trying to pry open his three-ton eyelids.

The room he was in practically glowed from the bright, stinging light streaming in from the window, and Dean groaned as it awoke a friggin’ army of apes with jackknives in his skull who all promptly went to town tearing his brain to shreds.

Dean pried his eyes open again, slower this time and squinting to block as much light as possible while scanning his surroundings. The room was a neutral beige color, reflecting way too much of the light from the one window which had its blinds drawn up exposing the view of an overgrown yard and trees.

He stiffly shifted his head to the left and frowned at the sight of Sam slumped on the edge of the bed as he sat in what had to be one of the most uncomfortable looking positions on one of the most uncomfortable wooden chairs in the world.

“S’m.” Okay, so his voice was shot to Hell and emerging as nothing more than a hoarse croak that only vaguely approximated his brother’s name. Dean coughed as his throat protested use and clenched his eyes shut as his sore and aching body protested the cough.

Sam jerked awake at the slight noise and Dean’s frown deepened as he took stock of the bloodshot eyes and deep bags under them on Sam’s face. Sam was smiling though, a big hopeful smile, as his eyes grew glassy and he leaned forward clutching at Dean’s hand. A pit grew in Dean’s stomach and he cast a desperate gaze around the room hoping his dad was hiding in one of the corners.

“Oh my God, Dean. You’re awake. Thank God. How do you feel? I’m so glad you’re awake,” Sam rambled immediately shoving a hand onto Dean’s forehead. Dean jerked back, groaning as his aching muscles objected. Sam pinched his eyebrows, gentling his hold and murmuring soft nonsense.

“Shudup,” Dean muttered frowning at the lack of coherency then deciding his genius little brother was smart enough to translate. “What happened? Where’s Dad?”

An odd look flickered over Sam’s face before it was buried too quickly for Dean’s sluggish brain to analyze it. Sam shrugged minutely, completely ignoring Dean’s question in favor of asking his own. “How are you feeling? Here, have some water. Are you hungry?”

Sam fussed over him for several more minutes, and Dean could feel his eyelids growing heavy with each passing second. Before long, Sam was speaking from a far off island, voice muddled by the distance, and Dean was floating on a cloud of warm air that swallowed him whole.

* * *

Dean remembered waking on several occasions. Some times it was light, other times dark, but every time Sam was either right next to him on the bed or in the immediate vicinity. Each time, Dean felt stronger and more aware even though he succumbed to sleep again in a matter of minutes. Sam used the intervals of consciousness to get him to drink as much water as possible, and to get him to ingest a seemingly endless supply of bland chicken noodle soup. Sam also spent Dean’s periods of lucid awareness as times he choose to go selectively deaf and ignore all of Dean’s tired questioning. Sam did fill Dean in on the fact that they were at an old farmhouse and he’d been out of it for several days with a bad fever, but anytime Dean brought up Dad or requested specifics he was abruptly ignored. Eventually Dean stopped asking where Dad was or what antibiotics had saved his ass, deciding instead to focus his meager supply of strength on getting better so he could threaten Sam into answering without sounding pathetic and getting a bitchface from Sam that clearly read ‘like you could even stand your own ass up without face-planting’. But boy was it irksome letting Sam have his way.

This time Dean pried his eyes open he could feel a physical difference, a strength that had so far been absent but was now slowly returning. Sam left the room as soon as Dean showed signs of waking, no doubt on his way to fetch a tall glass of water and another bowl of chicken noodle soup. Dean managed to haul himself into a sitting position, wincing a little as his wounded arm smarted, but otherwise happy that he’d accomplished movement on his own. After a moment of contemplation he was reasonably sure he could make it to the door before falling over and so began weighing the pros and cons of trying to pull a Westley on his little brother and bluff his way through a threatening.

As Sam returned looking rundown but earnest with a tray of food and drink, face lighting up as he saw Dean had managed to sit up, Dean tossed out his plan stolen from _Princess Bride_ and decided he’d probably get further if he used Sammy’s compassion against his little brother and begged pathetically instead of threatened.

He accepted the tray, taking small sips from the water before cradling the bowl of soup in hands that were definitely not shaking and beginning to take small bites. Sam ran through his typical litany of questions asking how Dean was feeling, if anything hurt, if there was anything he needed, and Dean answered succinctly. He felt fine, nothing hurt more than before, and Sam had already brought him a five-star breakfast.

He wanted to drop the bomb and demand where Dad was but past experience told him that nothing clammed Sammy up faster than that question. So he settled for one he hadn’t asked yet.

“Whaddya do to my arm?”

Sam looked stunned blinking slowly then furrowed his brows in confusion like he had no idea what Dean was talking about.

Dean swallowed a mouthful of soup and elaborated. “You aren’t giving me any pills so I’m guessin’ I never got any antibiotics or nothin’ unless you’ve been dissolving them in all this water you’re forcing me to drink…speaking of which,” Dean trailed off, his talk of water brining a new issue to his attention. “I gotta pee.”

He set the soup aside sweeping a contemplative gaze around the room suddenly wondering what the Hell he’d done all the other times he surely had to pee before. He caught Sam’s slightly mortified looking stare and abruptly decided he never wanted to know.

“Help me, would you?” he said waving his hand a little impatiently as he swung his legs to the side of the bed and attempted to stand. Sam leapt to his side, steadying him and guided him out of the room and to the bathroom. His brother waited politely outside while Dean relieved himself, leaning a steadying hand on the counter that was conveniently placed next to the toilet, thank the Lord or he may have discovered what toilet water tasted like which would be ten kinds of yuck. Finished, Dean grabbed the bucket full of water Sam had left next to the commode and clumsily dumped it in the tank and pushed the lever down to flush, muttering a small thanks for toilets that flushed without electricity.

He took a moment while he was alone to examine himself in the mirror not liking what he saw. His hair seemed longer or maybe it was just him, but it brought a fresh batch of questions as to just how long he’d be out of commission. His skin was too pale attesting to his sickly state, his gaunt face and tight stomach made him wonder how long it had been since he’d eaten a solid meal, and his dull eyes peered out above dark circles that rivaled Sam’s despite all the sleep he’d been getting. He looked like death warmed over. He slouched against the counter picking gently at the bandage on his arm. It still ached, a bone-deep throbbing ache, but overall didn’t feel too bad.

Sam knocked on the door softly. “Dean? You all right?”

Dean clenched his teeth and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes taking a deep breath. “Fine, Sammy. Just give me a minute.”

Dad was gone.

He didn’t know why the knowledge was hitting him so hard here, in the bathroom of some abandoned old house of all places. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d moved from his segregated room and there was still no sign of his father. Or that throughout all the muddled memories he could recall from his whole time here, not one included his dad.

And from Sammy’s evasive answering Dean could sure as Hell deduce that Dad was not _supposed_ to be gone. Dean was pretty sure his Dad had probably gone to get antibiotics since Dean had used the last of them and still managed to try and die. Wherever Dad had gone to though, he hadn’t returned. And in this world that could only mean one thing.

Sam knocked again calling his name softly, and Dean shook himself trying his best to plaster his game face back on and blink his eyes dry. Sammy needed him. Needed him to be grounded and centered. To be in control. He took one more slow breath and opened the door, raising an eyebrow at how close Sam was standing with a hand raised as if to knock again.

“Give me some space, bro,” he muttered taking quick determined steps back to the bedroom because he needed to sit down right the Hell now. He didn’t protest when Sam grabbed his elbow, helping to steady him as he collapsed back on the bed.

He sighed, relaxing into the pillows and shifting into a comfortable position before picking his bowl of soup back up feeling hungrier than he had anytime before when Sam had force-fed him the stuff. He swallowed a couple mouthfuls before asking again, “So, the arm? What did you do with it?”

“Uh,” Sam shifted looking a little uncomfortable but eventually just shrugging and grimacing sheepishly. “Maggot therapy.”

Dean froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“Uh. Maggot therapy,” Sam repeated meekly. “You know…maggots. To eat the dead—”

Dean dropped his spoon back in the bowl holding up his hand to halt Sam’s explanation as his stomach flip-flopped against the images his brain was conjuring. He wasn’t stupid; he knew exactly what maggot therapy was. “Dude, just, ugh, stop. That’s gross.”

Sam pulled bitchface number five with an added scowl. “Well it was either that or amputation,” he groused crossing his arms defensively.

Dean closed his eyes, mind dredging up years old memories of a civil war documentary he’d watched once, and took a calming breath holding out his soup bowl. “Okay, that’s it. I’m done.”

“What? No, Dean, you gotta eat,” Sam protested taking the bowl from his shaking hand but sliding closer as if to start hand-feeding him.

Dean shook his head, finding his mouth incredibly dry as he licked his lips. “Not right now, Sammy,” he breathed trying to hold down what little he had eaten. “Don’t feel so good.”

Dean felt Sam’s hand against his forehead again and flicked his gaze up to examine his brother’s face, which looked pensive and slightly concerned.

“Well you don’t have a fever. Maybe I should check your arm—”

Dean groaned and pulled his arm against him protectively leaning over it. “No. God, please, no more maggoty almost amputated arm talk. Please.”

Sam frowned but sat the bowl of soup on the nightstand and made no move to touch Dean’s arm. Instead he silently held out the glass of water which Dean took thankfully sipping from it to dampen his mouth.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d be squeamish about it,” Sam remarked and Dean wearily flipped him off.

“Shut up, bitch. Let’s see you have creepy-crawlers eat your arm.”

Sam wrinkled his nose at Dean. “Jerk.”

Dean chuckled and let himself sag against the pillows feeling more drained than he could ever remember, but he could stay awake. He was tired, but it was sleep calling instead of unconsciousness, and he knew from experience it was a good sign.

“You should rest more,” Sam said softly, extricating the glass from Dean’s hand and sitting it on the nightstand. Dean shook his head but didn’t put up much of a fight as Sam tugged and prodded at him until he was lying down comfortably.

Dean blinked sluggishly, fighting back the sleep sweetly calling his name, and grabbed Sam’s wrist as he went to move away. “How long?” he rasped.

Sam frowned and crouched down. “How long what? How long have you been out?”

Dan shook his head, meeting Sam’s gaze with his own and holding it, letting Sam know there would be no evading the question this time. No more asking where Dad was and letting Sam get away without roundabout circle answers.

“How long has Dad been missing?”

Sam sighed and the resigned look crossing his features let Dean know Sam had known that Dean knew. Sam swallowed heavily. “A few days,” he whispered, worry clear in his eyes.

“How long?” Dean repeated wanting an exact count.

“Eleven days,” Sam said. “Dad went out for supplies, and he hasn’t been back in eleven days.”


	3. Chapter Three

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

“We aren’t going and that’s final,” Sam said trying to inflect the same commanding tone Dean and Dad always used on him when issuing orders. He was obviously failing because Dean didn’t even look phased. Or Dean was just ignoring him, which was also completely viable. Either way it ticked Sam off that his opinion in the matter wasn’t being taken into account.

Dean glanced up from the bag he was packing. He looked better, several days of rest and forced TLC from Sam doing wonders, but he was still favoring his arm and having random dizzy spells that made it dangerous to even consider doing what he proposed.

“Dad’s missing, Sammy. We gotta go find him,” Dean said as if it were the simplest thing in the world, and, to him, it probably was. But Sam had just gone through two weeks of Hell scared to death he would lose his brother and worried absolutely sick over his missing father so, at this moment, the most important thing to him was keeping Dean safe and alive.

“You almost _died_ , Dean. You’ve only been up and walking around, shakily so might I add, for the last _two_ days. We can’t go gallivanting off into an overrun city,” he shouted. Dean froze and raised his gaze to regard Sam concernedly. Sam swallowed, regretting his tone that seemed to have launched Dean into mother-hen mode and added in a more even tone, “Just wait a few more days. Please.”

Dean sighed and zipped the bag closed. “Sammy…it’s been two weeks. Fourteen days. Dad _can’t_ wait.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t know that. We don’t know—” he cut himself off swallowing jerkily. “Dad didn’t come back and you were…you were dying and,” Sam covered his mouth with his hands working on keeping the tears back. Wouldn’t do to cry in front of the brother he was trying to convince he wasn’t a child anymore. “Dad was _missing_ and you were _dying_ …you don’t know what that feels like. And now you wanna run off half cocked and still sick to a city that’s crawling with Infected? No. Not happening.”

Dean pursed his lips a moment before walking around the bed to stand in front of Sam. Though Sam could practically look Dean in the eye now, Dean still carried the presence of being the older brother with him, a gentle reassurance that Sam could always look to. Dean settled his hand on Sam’s shoulder and squeezed it soothingly. “Listen, we’ll figure it out, okay?” he murmured meeting Sam’s gaze with his own. “Just like we always do.”

Sam nodded and Dean gave him a soft grin. “And I ain’t going anywhere, all right?” Dean said. “You and your maggot friends made certain of that,” he continued giving an exaggerated shiver that managed to wrench a short chuckle from Sam. Dean gave Sam’s shoulder one last squeeze then knocked his fist into Sam’s jaw gently forcing it up a bit. “So chin up, kiddo, and pack some bags. We’ll take it slow and it’ll probably be a few days before we hit the city proper anyway being on foot and all.”

Sam nodded once more, took a steadying breath and began to help his brother pack. There was no way he was talking Dean out of this and if he couldn’t convince Dean to stay with him then he sure as Hell was gonna stick to Dean like a parasite.

They were ready to go in a few hours. Though Sam drug his feet as much as possible, Dean wasn’t taking any of his crap today and kept shooting him looks that said Dean knew exactly what he was doing and to cut it out.

Dad had left their bags behind along with some weapons, but most of their arsenal had been in the car. Between the two of them they each had a machete, pocketknives, and a .45 with a few extra clips. They also had one 7MM-08 rifle and Sam’s crossbow. Dean’s crossbow had been in the Impala, something he had been upset to learn, so he took the rifle though they would have to rely on Sam for silent kills during their trek.

Sam was actually sad to leave the farmhouse; it had become somewhat of a sanctuary being so far off the beaten path he hadn’t even seen an Infected for the duration of his time there. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would have lasted—nowhere was safe for long—but he wished he could have clung to it a bit longer.

The day was a bit stuffy, the humid air making it seem hotter than it was, but the sun was thankfully mostly blocked by an overcast sky. Dean walked ahead of him, long determined steps eating up the ground quickly as Sam kept up easily behind him thanking God for the recent growth spurt that made it possible.

He glanced back as they rounded the curve in the driveway, catching one last look at the quaint farmhouse that had been his haven to save his brother. He tried to note all the details, to remember it as clear as possible, but knew that the image in his mind would fade within a week or a month, leaving nothing but a hazy memory to join all the other places he’d stayed in his short life.

The house was out of view and Sam hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder and readjusted his grip on the crossbow. It would be a long walk to Pittsburgh.

* * *

“Come on, Dean, let’s stop for the day,” Sam said. He refused to think of it as whining but, to be completely honest, it probably was whining. “We’ve been walking for eight hours.”

Dean grunted and kept walking, head bowed and bag slung high on his left shoulder. His steps were noticeably slower than when they’d set out in the morning and Sam was worried Dean was overexerting himself. Going from bed rest to walking twenty miles was most definitely not a good idea.

Sam grit his teeth, still scanning the edges of the road for a good place to get off road for the night. “Dean. I’m tired. My feet ache. I’m hungry,” he listed off grouchily adding some heavier footsteps and huffing breaths for good measure.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sammy. You’re feet are fine. You can’t possibly be more tired than I am so it doesn't count, and if you’re hungry you can eat while we walk,” Dean said in a falsely chipper voice. “I’m not an idiot, Sam.”

Sam rolled his eyes; should have known Dean would see through that plan. Time for plan B, he thought. He dropped his bag to the ground and sat on it, crossing his arms and waiting for Dean to realize he was no longer following.

Dean only took a few steps before apparently noticing the lack of footsteps behind him and turning around. He sighed, fixing Sam with an exasperated stare. “Seriously, Sammy. What are you, four?”

Sam just tightened his arms and gave Dean his best disapproving look, the expression Dean had fondly dubbed the Cassic Bitchface.

“Are you actually _pouting_?” Dean said incredulously. “We aren’t stopping, Sam. We have to keep going. It’s not even dark.”

“Dad’s rule number five, _Dean_. Always stop before dark, especially when on foot,” Sam recited with a slight smile.

Dean frowned at him and shook his head. “Don’t you do that. Don’t use him against me.”

Sam scoffed, hurt Dean would accuse him of such a thing, now of all times, and stood up. “I'm not _using_ him, Dean. I’m trying to get you to stop being an idiot.” Dean narrowed his eyes, a clear warning for Sam to shut his pie-hole but he ploughed forward, angry for Dean’s continued resistance against what he wanted. They’d left the farmhouse against his opinion, they’d walked all day against his input, and now Dean refused to stop. It was classic Dean, zeroing in on a problem and ignoring himself to the point of self-harm. “You keep telling me over and over that we’ll figure this out and he’ll be okay,” Sam said, “but I can tell you’re worried and wearing yourself out. You have to stop and deal with this.”

“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean repeated for the thousandth time.

Sam grit his teeth. “You’re exhausted, I can tell. You need to sleep, but you keep saying you’re fine. You’re not fine, you’re completely spent. You might still be sick—”

“Of course I’m tired, Sam!” Dean shouted. His voice echoed down the deserted road fading into the forest on either side of them. “I just walked twenty some odd miles! Aren’t you tired? Huh?” He asked, gaze searching over Sam’s face. His expression softened a bit as he lowered his tone. “I’m not being an idiot, I’m being practical. The longer we take, the harder it will be to find Dad.”

Sam swallowed his next words, lowering his gaze to the broken road beneath their feet. Dean took a couple steps closer leaning down a bit to meet his eyes. “Sam, I am fine. Honest. A little tired. A little sore. But I’m not lying to you and dashing off after Dad half-cocked.”

“Can we please, _please_ stop for the night?” Sam asked quietly.

Dean eyed him contemplatively for a long moment before nodding slowly a concerned expression settling on his countenance. Apparently he didn’t like whatever it was that he saw and the thought made Sam uncomfortable. Dean was still healing, he should be worried about himself, not Sam.

Sam followed Dean off the road, trekking a bit of a ways into the woods before finding a small clearing and dropping his duffle to the ground beside Dean’s. They settled in, pulling out the bare necessities to make camp for the night. Sam laid his crossbow next to his bedroll, which was spread out across from Dean’s, and dug through his bag to gather cold rations for their supper.

Dean ate silently, picking delicately at his food, while watching Sam like a hawk. “You okay, Dean?” Sam asked quietly, not having much of an appetite himself, and feeling like a bug under a microscope.

“I’m fine, kiddo.” Dean’s utterly bullshitted reply was quickly followed up with, “What about you?”

Sam nodded. “Good,” he said staring at the ground to avoid Dean’s gaze. He found an interesting spider and watched it crawl through the dirt and decomposing leaves.

“Sam, you know we’re gonna find Dad, right?” Dean said, reassuring tone out to the fullest. Sam glanced up not able to help the faint smile at Dean’s earnest look from where he was sitting, leaning on his knees in a cross-legged position on his own bedroll.

Sam nodded again, not really knowing what to say in reply. They didn’t even know if there was anything to find. He trusted his brother, he did, but he wasn’t too sure this time. Fourteen days was a long time for anyone, and Dad had never been out of touch for so long before. Sam was scared of what they would find in Pittsburgh, or rather the lack of what they would find.

“Right then,” Dean said, clapping his hands together with a note of finality. “Get some shuteye. I’ll take the first watch.”

“No,” Sam protested. Dean looked at him sharply, seemingly not appreciating the contradiction of his order, but underlying was the overtly concerned expression. “I mean, just,” Sam stuttered, he sighed taking a second to gather his thoughts. “I just mean my head’s kinda stuffed at the moment. You can sleep first. It’ll give me a chance to sort my thoughts,” he explained, only embellishing the truth a little. He really did think he wouldn’t be able to sleep at the moment and there was no need for both of them to be awake. Also, first shift watch was a bitch when you were tired, and if Dean slept now Sam could let him sleep longer before waking him.

Dean pursed his lips and tilted his head, sure signs he was considering Sam’s offer, before nodding curtly. “If you’re sure…” he said trailing off and waiting for Sam’s nod before shrugging and bedding down. He was silent for a few more minutes before bidding Sam goodnight and telling him to wake him for his turn on watch, briskly informing Sam that he would sock Sam a good one if Sam tried any funny business.

Sam returned the goodnight pleasantry and promised to wake Dean, a small smile gracing his lips at Dean’s continued intuition at reading him like a book. Dean’s breath evened out within minutes, deepening as he rolled on his side snuggling down in his blanket and jacket. Sam watched him fondly, once again thanking god that his brother was okay. He’d have to bully Dean into letting Sam check his bandages in the morning, but for now Sam was content to sit and watch the soft rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

* * *

“Well,” Dean breathed out quietly beside Sam from their prone position on the hill a few miles outside the city. “I don’t see much movement.”

It had taken three days to walk to Pittsburgh, the brisk pace they’d maintained despite Sam’s objections meaning they covered a lot of ground in a relatively small amount of time. The city had come into view early evening yesterday, and the brothers had unanimously decided it would be better to wait until the morning of the fourth day before entering lest they be caught in the city at dark.

“Well that’s a good sign,” Sam replied softly. They weren’t close to the city limits yet, but their training still had them conversing in undertones. Sam held his hand out in a beckoning gesture, and Dean wordlessly handed over the binoculars, turning his own gaze away from the suburbs and to a possible path for them to follow instead.

The suburbs were quite, almost disturbingly so, as Sam and Dean walked through. Dean let Sam walk just ahead of him as they made their way through the dead silent neighborhood. Bringing Sam with him on trips to the cities always made Dean hyperaware; he generally preferred to keep Sam safely behind him, but in a city it was safer to have Sam in front where Dean could watch him and he was in no danger of being surprised from behind. It also helped Dean’s case in getting his brother to take point given that Sam was the one with the crossbow while Dean would have to rely on his blade. Any gunshot in the city would be potentially fatal and Dean wasn’t about to risk his brother’s life just so he wouldn’t have to go hand to hand with an Infected.

It wasn’t until they were quite within the city limits when Sam signaled a halt with a upraised closed fist, before turning around to ask quietly, “Where are all the Infected? This place should be crawling.”

Dean shushed him then shrugged swirling his index finger around his temple then flicking his fingers outward to convey the basic thought that Infected were crazy so he didn’t know how their fried brains worked and they probably just dispersed at the lack of food in the area.

Sam frowned at him furrowing his brows miming two people walking towards each other. Dean raised his eyebrows contemplatively then nodded slowly. There was a possibility the suburbs were cleared out because the Infected were congregating elsewhere.

Sam looked up at him, wide eyes instantly worried as he quickly placed his thumb to his forehead with his fingers outspread. _Dad?_

Dean shook his head quickly tapping his hand to his temple then his chin and giving Sam a thumbs up. _He knows better._

Sam tossed him Bitchface Number Three: _so?_ He closed his fist, tapping his thumb to his chin then jerking it out before forming the sign letter ‘p’ and tapping his middle fingers together. _Dad’s not perfect._

Dean rolled his eyes not wanting to start this with Sam here and now. He tapped his hand to his temple again then closed his hand quickly at the corner of his mouth. He pointed forward indicating his desire to move on. _I know. Now shut up and go._

Sam scowled, glaring at Dean from the corner of his eye but obeyed without a word or gesture. They worked their way deeper into the city, skirting around a few Infected which had the odd result of making Dean feel more at ease than the completely empty city had, before stopping at a street intersection.

Dean frowned at Sam who was giving him an expression of pinched brows and narrowed eyes. _This is going to take forever._

Dean mimed opening a folded piece of paper then drew a circle with his index finger. He made a ‘p’ rubbing it into his palm before shaking his hands outward. _We’ll need a map. Dad would head for a pharmacy._

Sam cocked his head to the side with a condescending frown and an open hand motion out towards the city before tapping the thumb of his cupped hand to his temple. _Where are we going to find a map, genius?_

Dean arched an eyebrow and folded his hands outward like he was opening a book. He then crossed his arms over his chest and pointed at Sam. _Library? You love those._

Sam simply glowered at him, _And where are we gonna find one of_ those _?_

Dean smiled slightly and waggled his fingers by his head before making the ‘b’ sign and jerking it outward from his chin. _Use your spidey-senses, bitch._

Sam spread his fingers, lowered his ring finger, and then twisted his hand around sharply. _Jerk._

Dean flicked Sam’s ear, deftly dodging the return slap and picking a random direction to head in. Surprisingly, they stumbled across a library shortly, after only an hour or two of searching. Gaining entrance was easy, no one cared to secure a library when the world was going to shit; all books were good for now was tinder for fires. Except for nerds like Sammy who continuously droned on about preserving humanity.

Finding a map of Pittsburgh that had what they needed was only a little harder, and before long they were headed through the city towards the business district and the closest pharmacy marked on the map.

Dean manned the map, making sure they kept on the correct streets, tapping Sam’s left or right shoulder to indicate the direction to turn. The pharmacy was close now, just over one more street. Dean glanced up, hand outstretched to tap Sam’s shoulder but he ended up grabbing it in a vice grip instead.

There, just down the street and almost completely hidden in an alley, was the front bumper of the Impala, Dean was sure of it.

Quickly cutting off Sam’s protest of his rough handling, he pointed out the Impala able to track the exact moment Sam saw what he did in his brother’s body language. The two of them took off down the road, pace much quicker now but still just as careful, Sam scoping out in front and Dean covering their backs.

Dean leaped over a pile of crumpled crates, giving a cursory glance down the alley before peering eagerly into the Impala. It had been far too much a dream to hope to find their dad in the Impala, but he couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit crushed and overwhelmed. Sam came to a halt beside him, the disappointment clear on his face as well.

“He’s not here,” Sam said numbly.

Dean nodded curtly motioning for Sam to keep a look out as he pulled one of the doors open and began searching through the car. “Not a bad thing, Sammy.”

So Dad wasn’t here. He wasn’t here _alive._ But he wasn’t here _dead_ either, which had been an image haunting Dean for the past three days; finding Dad dead in the Impala, sightless eyes staring up and blood congealing on the seats.

Dean shuddered and rifled through the few things in the front seat. There wasn’t much in the car. Their Dad’s large road atlas in the back seat was about the only thing in the car besides a couple empty food cans and bottles of water. The bag they usually took on supply runs was missing, as was Dean’s crossbow.

Dean took a deep breath, trying to keep his emotions in check and approach the situation logically. So Dad had left the car and hadn’t returned. He had the smaller supply bag with him, probably his usual arsenal of weapons and had also taken Dean’s crossbow apparently. Dad didn’t have a crossbow of his own, much more fond of his blades and crossbows weren’t that easy to come by nowadays so the two he had found had gone to his comparatively smaller and lighter sons who, in the beginning of the attacks at least, hadn’t had the physical build to go head to head with an Infected.

He popped the trunk as he slid from the car and stopped dead in his motions noticing a slash on the front tire. The car door slipped from his fingers falling shut with a loud thud that had Sam jumping and jerking to face him with a scolding look. He stopped short, however, as Dean dropped to his knees beside the tire.

“Dean?”

Dean shook his head, frantically motioning for his brother to be quiet and grabbed Sam’s shirt to drag him to the ground. “Look at this,” Dean hissed. He twisted around checking the back tire. “The tires have been slashed. This wasn’t Infected.”

Sam stared at him wide-eyed. “What do we do?”

Infected were scary enough and formidable opponents in large groups, but with the right skills and precautions they could be avoided even in large cities like the one they were presently in. It was just dangerous and practically suicidal to put oneself in such close proximity to the large numbers found in previously heavily populated areas.

People, on they other hand, people were what they feared the most because people could still _think._ They were still cunning and devious and had motives other than hunger. They still stole and lied and double-crossed. People hid and set traps and people killed other people. Even in the apocalypse people had failed to find enough humanity to help one another.

The few run-ins they had with other still human beings over the years had disillusioned them to their fellow kinsmen, making them bitter and distrustful. Mostly him and Dad; Sam, bless his soul, still had a bleeding heart even after all this time, and Dean often wonder how long it would be until it ran dry, a pondering that usually left a sour taste in his mouth and ache in his chest.

Dean signaled for Sam to stay down and moved to check the trunk. Like he feared, it was practically empty, only a few nonessential items remaining. He swore mentally, checked the other tires, which were also slashed, then returned to Sam.

“The trunk’s cleaned out. Whoever slashed the tires took everything of value,” he reported quietly.

“Do you think Dad was here when they did it?” Sam asked, still keeping an alert gaze sweeping around the car. His tone was even and stance steady but he had a white knuckled grip on his crossbow.

Dean shrugged. “There’s no way of knowing. No blood or signs of a struggle but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“Do you think they have him?”

“I don’t know, Sam. I really don’t. Maybe.” Dean sure hoped not because getting their Dad back from a group of hostile people would be infinitely harder than rescuing him from a hoard of Infected. But with the evidence presenting itself it was looking more and more like Dad had been taken by a group of humans, which would certainly explain the two-week overdue return date. “Let’s just look around some more, see what we can find, then find a place to bed down for the night and come up with a new plan of action.”

Sam nodded then froze shooting Dean a look like he thought Dean was crazy. “We’re staying in here?”

“We don’t really have a choice, Sam. We can’t just keep coming in and out of the city,” Dean said. “We’ll find a windowless room and barricade ourselves in and wait it out until morning, all right?”

They scouted around for a few more hours, locating the pharmacy their Dad had probably been to and obtaining a dishearteningly meager supply of medicine. They scavenged a bit of non-perishables and bottled water, but their small bags and the fact they had to carry everything with them meant they couldn’t really stock up on much.

As the sun began to lower and the city started to darken Dean selected a storage room with a ventilation shaft as an emergency exit in a deserted office building as the place to bed down for the night. He and Sam moved most of the items still in the small room to outside and moved a rather heavy desk inside to act as a barricade.

They left the door open as they ate and organized their small amount of belongings. They had fruit cocktails for supper and finished off a couple bottles of water before spreading their bedrolls out side by side. After they were settled Dean pushed the door closed then wedged the desk in front of it.

The room was dark and slightly claustrophobic as Dean laid down, their breaths seemingly overly loud and every noise from outside making him tense and alert.

“We should set watches,” Sam whispered though it sounded like he was speaking through a megaphone in the confines of the small room.

Dean shook his head even though he knew Sam had no way of seeing it. “No point,” he replied just as softly. “What are we gonna watch? Anything tries to get in the noise will wake both of us. This way we’ll both sleep and we won’t be tired tomorrow.” Dean turned on his side, tucking his elbow under his head. He nudged Sam’s shoulder. “Relax, Sammy, and get some shuteye.”

Sam huffed but shifted around and remained quiet. Dean stared into the darkness, mind cataloging every scrape and shuffle sounding beyond the walls and knew Sam was doing the same. He started humming _Enter Sandman_ softly, the vague sounding music calming his nerves as well as Sam’s. He ran through the song twice before switching over to some Led Zeppelin and Styx. It was about ten songs later when Sam’s breaths slowed and deepened; Dean kept up the humming for a couple more songs before tapering off.

He focused on keeping his own breathing slow, deep and regular; a trick he’d learned from Dad to keep himself calm and he hoped it would keep Sam asleep as well. With no way to measure time, Dean had no way of knowing how long he laid awake staring at his brother’s faint outline and listening the rise and fall of the activity from the Infected outside. The night brought them out in larger numbers and Dean shuddered thinking of just how macabre it was to sleep in a closet surrounded by walking corpses.

He wondered how many, exactly, there were. How many of the world’s population had been reduced to decomposing carcasses? Who had they been four years ago? What had their lives been like? Their families, jobs, desires and dreams. How many had fallen to the first wave and how many had fallen later? Was any of their family still alive? Children, parents or friends? During the day Dean could fend off such philosophical thoughts but lying awake in a dark supply room was the perfect breeding ground for such deep ponderings.

And in that dark room with Sam’s deep breaths beside him, his thoughts turned to Dad and the raided Impala dredging up deep fears of being left alone in this world, Sam and Dad both gone. Mind constructing horrifying images of Sam and Dad dead or infected—

Dean clenched his hands, taking calming breaths and staying perfectly still to not wake Sam; the kid had a nasty habit of waking up at the most inopportune moments. He started humming Led Zeppelin again to calm himself this time and finally drifted off to the tune of _Ramble On._


	4. Chapter Four

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Sam woke to a faint beam of light leaking in under the door and feeling surprisingly rested. Dean was still asleep, looking haggard even in rest, so Sam stayed motionless hoping to let Dean sleep for a little longer.

Dean though, apparently had different plans and, alerted by some no doubt subtle shift from Sam, stirred awake scrubbing a hand over his face before pulling himself into a sitting position.

Sam sighed and joined him, tugging his duffle closer to fish out two more cans. “You want peaches or apples?” he asked, coughing slightly to clear his throat.

Dean shrugged in the corner of Sam’s peripheral vision, shadows blanketing his face in the dimly lit room. “Not really hungry, Sammy.”

“You gotta eat something, Dean,” Sam said, concerned his brother was turning down a meal. He raked a calculating gaze over Dean’s slightly illuminated form looking for signs that his illness was worsening again. He looked tired but not too worse for wear.

Dean sighed and held out his hand. “Fine. Apples.”

Sam handed over the requested can, still a little worried but happy Dean was eating. “So what’s the plan of action?” Sam asked around a mouthful of peaches.

Dean shrugged again picking at his own food. “Aside from tracking down whoever slashed Baby’s tires, and putting a bullet in every one of their skulls, we really have no option. So that’s what we’ll do.”

“So your plan is to, what, go play Marco Polo with people who probably want to kill us and just hope it works out?” Sam scoffed. He knew his brother had crazy ideas sometimes, but this was just a bit too far on the death-wish side of stupid.

“Pretty much. I mean, I’m open to suggestions if you’ve got any,” Dean said, clearly not expecting Sam to have any ideas.

Sam scowled at him, though Dean probably couldn’t see it as Sam had his back to the light from the door, and drained his can of peaches. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. Crazy as it is.”

* * *

The went back to the Impala to see if there was anything they’d missed the first time around. Sam rolled his eyes as Dean caressed the car in apology, not for the first time thinking the relationship his brother had with an inanimate object was a bit concern worthy. But, considering the state of the world, perhaps he should be more accepting because there really wasn’t an _actual_ girl or anything for Dean to get attached to.

“Why didn’t they take the car?” Sam asked looking around the alleyway. Dean motioned for him to keep it down and Sam obligingly lowered his voice. “I mean, it’s a nice car and those are kinda hard to come by nowadays.”

“I think they had another vehicle. Look,” Dean said pointing out a faint tire tread at the mouth of the alleyway.

“Well that’s great, they could be anywhere in the city then,” Sam said.

Dean crouched next to the car and frowned. “I don’t get it though. How are they staying alive in the city like this?”

“We don’t know that they are, Dean. They could just be passing through, like Dad,” Sam pointed out.

“Nah. I don’t think so. If they were traveling why leave behind a perfectly good car? You said it yourself. Whoever they are, they’re nearby,” Dean said standing and dusting off his hands. He rubbed at the bandage on his arm and sighed. “Guess we do this the traditional way.”

“The traditional way?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded, brushing past Sam and leaving the alley. “Yeah. We look.”

They looked for the next two days finding a lot of nothing relating to their missing father. They found a good stash of canned food in an office closet that resembled their own makeshift home. After taking the time to transfer the cans to their closet, still good canned foods were not something to be passed up, they moved on to the next block of buildings. They also found several other vehicles with the same slashed tires as the Impala, something Dean took as a sign his initial conclusion that the other person or people were in the area was correct.

Dean was single-minded, pouring all of himself into the search and Sam tried his best to make sure Dean took care of himself too, making sure Dean ate, slept and checked his bandage regularly.

Staying in the city was taking a toll on both of them. The days were stressful and the nights were sleepless at worst and mildly refreshing at best as their motions gradually attracted more and more Infected into their area. Sam was racketing up quite the impressive kill count with his crossbow, and Dean wasn’t too far behind despite having to rely on his knives though Sam did his best to make sure Dean didn’t tangle with anything too strenuous.

After the fourth day, Dean made the executive decision to move to a new area in the city due to the increasing population of Infected and because they had pretty much searched everything in a four-block radius. So they moved on, sadly further away from the Impala, which Sam knew Dean was devastated to have to leave behind, and further into the city. They found a new closet and settled in.

Two days later they moved again, both Sam and Dean antsy and feeling like they were being watched. They went to ground then, taking every precaution in their survival repertoire to stay unnoticed.

“We can’t keep running around like this, Dean,” Sam said one night over their canned dinner. “We don’t even know what exactly we’re up against.”

“Yeah, well you got a better idea there, genius?”

Sam stayed silent, scowling in his brother’s general direction. Sam knew Dean was doing the best he could, but Sam couldn’t help despising the way Dean had taken charge seemingly without concern to Sam’s wants. Sure, he kept asking if Sam had ideas but the way he asked belied the fact that he would probably discount anything Sam tried to put forth.

“I think we should consider heading out—”

Dean shushed him and Sam scoffed. “If you don’t want me—” he was cut off with a grunt that time, as Dean launched himself across the small room and slapped a hand over Sam’s mouth. Sam froze realizing Dean must have heard something. Cold fear gripped his heart, hoping against hope his second attempt at speaking hadn’t given their position away to whatever Dean had heard. He strained his ears not hearing anything that could be a cause for the alarm Dean was displaying.

He pushed Dean’s hand away giving his brother a questioning look before his eyes widened as he finally picked up on the grumbling roar that sounded like growling animal. Sam placed his fingertips just below his collarbones, keeping his thumbs pointing up, and flexed his hands inward. _Animal?_

Dean shook his head, formed two letters ‘c’ and tapped them together. _Car._ A few moments later the engine cut off and Sam heard the muffled sound of voices. Dean pointed at Sam and then made a ‘y’, shaking it up and down, before pointing at the floor. _Stay here._

Sam shook his head vigorously. He pointed at Dean then himself and placed his hands together. _We’ll both go._

Dean repeated the ‘stay’ sign, sharply this time, and accompanied with a glare. He pointed at the door then tapped his eye. _I’m just gonna look._

Dean eased out the door, soft footfalls fading into the distance before disappearing entirely. Sam pushed the door closed and positioned himself in the corner with his crossbow loaded and ready. It was a tense few minutes before he heard footsteps again and he let a sigh of relief out lowering his bow slightly.

He was halfway to the door before he realized there was a second set of footsteps; a half beat off from the first step. The steps stopped and Sam eased backwards holding his breath. He set his bow against his shoulder, kneeling on the floor.

Seconds ticked by in silence as he breathed softly and waited. The footsteps didn’t start again and he began to question what he’d heard. Dad had always taught him to trust his first instinct, to not second guess himself but he couldn’t stop the doubts clamoring in his head as the seconds bled into minutes.

The sudden sliding of fabric against the wall had him reaffirming his stance. A low groan filtered down the hallway, then a small thump as the person hit the floor followed by more silence. Sam tightened his grip on the crossbow, a worrisome thought creeping in his mind that he hadn’t heard two sets of footsteps and the person currently lying in the hallway was Dean. Maybe he was hurt? Had gotten his idiot ass too close to the people he was supposed to just be watching.

Making up his mind Sam stood and opened the door, cautiously glancing around the corner. The hall looked deserted at first, light filtering in through the dirtied windows. Sam swallowed to dampen his dry mouth and called out softly knowing he was breaking just about every survival rule his dad ever taught him. “De—” He cut himself off with a wince. Shouldn’t use Dean’s name; that was a rule he could still follow. “Batman?” he whispered, feeling like an idiot.

One of the rules Dad had given them in the course of Outbreak had been to avoid using their names when in the presence of a potentially hostile force. Of course when Dad had outlined it to them Dean, then fifteen, had jumped in with ridiculous suggestions stating that he could be Eagle One, Dad could be It Happened Once In A Dream, and Sam could be If I Had To Pick A Dude. Thankfully Dad had vetoed those right away, but he’d let Dean select the final names as long as they met his approval. Sam knew he did so because it had been shortly after Dean started talking again, but that made little difference to the ridiculous feeling he got from calling Dean Batman or Dad Captain America. Nor did it lessen the silliness he felt in regard to his own name.

Dean had insisted that his name was Hulk. Something about his Bruce Banner mannerisms and green monster temper tantrums he’d thrown as a small child. Sam had protested vehemently declaring he was in no way shape or form a green giant with anger issues. Dean had smirked and said Sam was welcome to be his Robin if Sam so desired stating that Sam was already his sidekick. Sam had growled and given it one point three seconds of thought before deciding Hulk suited him just fine.

Dad had thought the names were hilarious and they’d stuck despite Sam’s displeasure. If he were being honest though, seeing Dean truly smile and laugh for the first time in a long time as he continuously said ‘I’m Batman’, began teasing Sam over his Hulk-ing out moments, and started referring to Dad as Oh Captain, My Captain or Cap’t instead of Sir was so entirely worth the humiliation of having codenames of superheroes.

A soft groan replied and Sam stepped fully from the room heading down the hallway towards the noise. “Batman?”

He was almost to the corner when a tall man stepped around the edge. He was decidedly not Dean. Sam halted and brought his crossbow up clenching his jaw.

The man was taller than him or Dean, probably over six feet, filthy and holding a menacing rusted machete. But the most disturbing aspect of the man’s appearance was the feral grin twisting his features into something predatory. “Oops, not your brother, sonny. Sorry to disappoint, but _Batman_ isn’t here right now.”

Sam heart skipped a beat and he took several quick steps back. “Where is he?”

The man took several slow steps forward. “Good question, where _is_ your brother?” he drawled.

A second too late Sam saw the man’s eyes flick up, looking behind Sam. He froze, realizing he’d allowed himself to be distracted. He whipped around too slow, feeling arms of steel wrap cruelly around his chest and throat.

He kicked back, his foot connect satisfyingly with a shin and gaining a grunt of pain. Bringing his elbow back, he rammed the butt of his crossbow into the face of the man behind him feeling the man’s grip loosen enough that he could propel himself forward a little bit.

The man in front of him chuckled darkly. “Get the lil’ runt, Jared.”

Sam grunted as he was lifted up, feet leaving the ground as the arms tightened unmercifully crushing his ribs. He struggled and felt the hold around his chest slacken a little.

Jared hissed in pain as Sam’s head collided with his nose. “How ‘bout a lil’ help ‘ere, Lee,” he grunted.

Lee grinned and started forward, doing nothing to avoid Sam’s blows, either stupid or overconfident. Sam braced himself in Jared’s hold, landing a solid kick to Lee’s stomach once he was in range. Lee stumbled away presenting Sam with a broad target.

“Knock the lil’ bastard out, Jared,” Lee growled.

Sam pulled the trigger and heard a yelp of pain before the world went dark.

* * *

Dean crouched behind a crate staring intently at the rundown looking blue truck parked in the middle of the street. It was rusting and falling apart, looked like it had seen much better days, and definitely not as well cared for as Baby had been.

His blood boiled thinking of how these rednecked savages had maimed a beautiful creature like his baby when their own truck looked like it was on the wrong end of a meat grinder. Figures the bastards didn’t know a good car when they saw one.

There didn’t seem to be anyone around the truck so Dean dared to move in closer. He’d told Sam he was only going to look but the opportunity to search the vehicle was too good to pass up. He crept up next to the deplorable (see Sam, he did know some big words) truck and carefully peeked inside the bed. He reached in carefully pulling up on the tarp only to recoil and drop to the ground gagging.

The stench, ever present in the city, was overpowering near the truck and now he knew why. Corpses in various states of decay and dismemberment were oozing bodily fluids into the bed of the truck, rotting in the hot sun under the filthy green tarp.

Dean breathed slowly through his mouth, trying to ignore the way he could almost taste the foul odor on his tongue and attempting to convince his stomach to not reject everything he’d eaten for the last three months, and moved up to the cab. He touched the handle and inched up to peer in the window.

A flurry of color threw itself against the pane of glass, barking furiously and Dean fell back in surprise brining his knife up in front of himself. His arm smarted as his palm struck the concrete, pulling on his stitches painfully. He tucked it against his side protectively, calmed his racing heart. He took a moment to wonder just how many surprises this damn truck was full of and looked closer at the dog currently ramming its body against the passenger door, causing the truck to rock slightly. It looked like a pitbull as far as Dean could tell from the snarling angry shape behind the spittle coated window.

“Calm your shit, Cujo,” Dean muttered, once again approaching the truck cab slower this time around. He ignored the crazy mutt as he catalogued the blurred items in the interior. The inside was as poorly maintained as the outside, the dash and steering wheel covered with disgusting grime and what looked like blood. Flies buzzed around empty cans cluttered on the seat and floor. An abundance of poorly cleaned knives seemed to be stacked on the middle of the bench seat, and Dean shook his head; it seemed the persons’ poor maintenance skills extended to more than just their vehicle.

The dog continued to bark and ram against the door. A particularly violent shove shifted the knives a bit and a gleaming silver one poked through the rusted ones covering it. A couple more shakes and Dean found himself squinting at his father’s favorite blade in the cab of a truck with a psychopathic canine.

Just as he was contemplating whether or not he’d be able to kill Cujo without too much bodily harm to himself the sound of voices, first talking lowly then yelling for the mutt to shut it’s trap, had Dean rushing backwards and hunkering down behind a low wall. He laid on his stomach, holding his breath and hoping the people would simply assume the dog had been yapping at an Infected and not come searching because he certainly wasn’t equipped to go head to head with these people.

There were two voices, but the conversation too garbled by low tones and the insane barking dog to make out much of the words. Something was thrown in the bed it seemed, landing with a sickening squelch on the rotting bodies, and then the doors were opened, screeching in all their glory, before grouchily slamming shut. The truck started up, rumbling with the distinct whining growl that had alerted Dean to its presence earlier. He winced as the gears were ground harshly, idiots weren’t all that great at driving stick apparently, before the truck jerkily pulled away and puttered its way down the street.

Dean waited until the engine sound faded into the distance to where he could no longer hear it and forced himself to count to one hundred before moving. He critically inspected the area where the truck had been parked and mentally marked the direction the truck had headed in—northwest. He tried to visualize the map to determine the most likely place the hostile group had set up base camp and hoped they didn’t move periodically. Given that it would be a smart decision to move around, and if he were staying in a city he definitely would, he figured this particular group probably didn’t, based on their other poor choices he’d already observed.

He walked briskly back to his and Sam’s closet wanting to return to his brother as being apart always had the nasty side effect of making him anxious. He picked up speed as he entered the building and started up the stairs unable to shake a sudden feeling of urgency. He tried to calm himself, reminding himself over and over of his brother’s competence and the hidden nature of their room, but only succeeded in making himself run faster.

Practically sprinting up the last flight of stairs, he jogged down the hallway trying to catch his breath. “Sammy?” He threw caution to the wind in favor for catering to his anxiety and hoping his little brother would poke his head out of the door and yell at him.

The doorway remained empty and Dean’s panic spiked as he ran the last few feet and threw the door open to reveal the empty space. Their bags and bedrolls were right where he’d left them. Sam was nowhere inside. “Sam? Sammy!”

Dean spun around staring both ways down the long, deserted hallway, fighting back the burning in his eyes and the panic clawing at his gut, hands clenched in the hair by his temples as his voice echoed off the bland white walls. “Sam!”

* * *

Sam groaned and rolled over. Or, rather, he tried to roll over and found his body’s desired path blocked. A rush of information slammed into his brain and he gagged at the putrid smell filling his nostrils as he clawed desperately at the rough canvas bag surrounding him. In the next second all his dad’s training came back to him, and Sam froze focusing on taking open-mouthed calming breaths.

He needed to catalogue the situation and, above all, _not panic_. Counting to twenty in his head, he paused long enough to calm his rampant thoughts into a discernible order and begin a closer inspection of his surroundings.

He was in a truck; a bouncy, smelly truck with the world’s whiniest engine, poking along slowly down one of the city streets if their speed and sporadic weaving was anything to go by. The bag he was currently residing in was a thick brown canvas that scratched uncomfortably on his bare skin and filled his nostrils with a stomach churning musty filth odor. All his weapons had been removed leaving him completely unarmed and with a sickening feeling of vulnerability.

Sam shifted again feeling something digging uncomfortably into his lower back. Moving did little to help only serving to create other instances of poking from whatever it was that he was lying on. By the smell and soft consistency of it he guessed it was decomposing bodies of something and decided that he’d really rather not know. Hurling in this small, already reeking bag was definitely not what he wanted to do.

He tried to judge how far they drove hoping to narrow down a possible radius he might be in from Dean but his aching head, which was making it a tad difficult to concentrate, not to mention he had no idea how long they’d been driving before he awoke, meant his best guess was that he was hopefully somewhere in the same city.

The back of his head throbbed in tandem with the rumbling of the truck engine and by the time the truck rolled to a abrupt halt, Sam had his eyes squeezed shut and was breathing shallowly through the pain.

The truck was left idling as one door was opened followed by a grinding squeal of something being dragged against concrete. Probably a gate of some sort. If these people were staying in the city they would need a reinforced, defensible position. He heard one of the men holler a warning to the other which was followed by the squelching thud of a knife in a human skull.

Sam tensed as the truck jerked forward, gears grinding in a way that would have Dean crying at the abuse, and a renewed wave of pain pulsed through his head. He was driven into a building, the sudden coolness and dimmer lighting being clear indicators, then the truck shut off. Well, they had arrived at wherever they were going.

Sam bit his lip, trying to decide what the best course of action would be in this situation. Stay limp and feign unconsciousness? Cooperate? Fight?

Fighting would be the dumbest action he could take. He was concussed, bound, tied in a bag, weaponless, and up against two very large men in an unknown area surround by flesh eating zombies. Cooperation would give him time to assess the people and his surroundings while hopefully resulting in no more injuries for himself. On the other hand, if he cooperated and was conscious the people might be more inclined to jump start whatever it was they took him for.

Feigning unconsciousness was difficult though, especially when being moved around because the body had so many natural, instinctual reactions and resisting motions when a person was conscious.

His best bet was feigning semi-consciousness probably. That would allow him to be observant and mildly resistant but hopefully keep the men from hurting him.

The bag tightened around him, lifting him up and out of the truck bed with a frightening sense of weightlessness that sent his head spinning before he was roughly slammed into the back of the man carrying him.

A groan slipped past his lips involuntarily, and he tensed against his rolling stomach. That cemented what plan he’d have to go with, though pretending to only be half aware probably wouldn’t be too hard.

“Think the runt’s awake,” the man holding Sam grunted as he hoisted the bag higher up on his shoulder.

“Pa will be pleased we got this one so soon after the other one. This one to replace that one, and another one comin’. Unheard of in the last few years. Getting’ hard to find ‘em not infected,” the other replied.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat at the implication behind the sentence. There was a third man Sam would have to deal with and he’d have to do so quickly or they’d be going after Dean. The thought of his brother in danger was terrifying. These men had managed to sneak up on and capture him and he was in top form. Dean was still injured, still sick. He wasn’t sleeping well and slept too heavily when he did. Sam knew he was nursing a low-grade fever and couldn’t use his arm for anything more than menial labor. Sam had been keeping Dean’s encounters with Infected to an absolute minimum and combat with a human was utterly out of the question simply because the wound would be an weak spot to be exploited and the stitches would no doubt tear leaving the gash wide open to infection again. And an infection on such as massive level like the last on would result in Dean’s death.

A door was pushed open, Sam hitting the frame with his legs. A couple minutes and a groaning metal door in serious need of some WD4 later and he was tumbling unceremoniously to the ground as his bag was upended. He hit the cold floor hard, wincing as his shoulder took the brunt of the impact.

He blinked rapidly, attempting to clear the stars from his vision and gained a blurry focus just as the man, Jared maybe, shut the door to the metal cage he was in. Sam swallowed looking around slowly. The cage he was in was set in a dark room with cement block walls, a basement probably, and there was another cage on either side of his. Both of them were empty. In the corner was a small table with four chairs, and stacked against the wall were boxes and crates full of bottle water and canned food.

The man—Jared or Lee, whatever—was still crouched at the door leering through the bars in a way that made Sam decidedly uncomfortable. He shifted back a bit suddenly grateful for the bars that separated him from Jared Lee Creep Face. A voice that sounded remarkably like Dean’s started up a string of insults and colorful swear words in the back of his mind.

“What the hell you lookin’ at, Herbert Cowboy?” Sam blurted out unable to keep quiet anymore and giving voice to the mini-Dean in his head.

Jared Lee McCreeper just grinned wider, revealing rotting teeth, and stood to walk away.

“Hey!” Sam yelled. “Who are you! What do you want! Answer me!”

The man paused, turning to look over his shoulder though Sam couldn’t make out the facial expression as it was cloaked in shadows. “Right now? All we want is yer brother.”

Icy fingers clawed down Sam’s back. The man left, closing the heavy door behind him and leaving Sam in darkness.


	5. Chapter Five

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Dean jerked awake, hand flexing spasmodically around the blade he’d fallen asleep gripping. He groaned and let his head fall into the wall behind him. He couldn’t have slept for more than a couple hours but daylight was filtering through the cracks and that meant the longer he sat here the more time he wasted when he could be looking for Sam.

Sheathing his blade, he inched over to the ceiling tile he crawled through last night and carefully pulled it up. He set it aside and slowly leaned down to check the room. It was empty and deserted. Bracing his arms on either side of the opening he swung his legs through, ignoring the burn from his arm, and dropped quietly to the floor.

His landing left a little to be desired, and he had to catch himself on a desk to keep upright but he grit his teeth and brushed it off. He was exhausted; if sleeping in the city with Sam had been Hell then trying to sleep alone was…well something worse than Hell, Dean couldn’t really think of a comparison right now. Besides no one was here to see his mild stumble and call him on it.

After finding his brother missing and spending the rest of the day looking for him, Dean had picked up and promptly moved again. He went to ground in the fullest extent of the concept, operating under the assumption that he was constantly being watched, except for his attempt to test gravity earlier. He’d moved to a less obvious base camp, a large open office building with lots of windows and entrances and exits. Generally Dean wouldn’t be caught dead here, it was practically a suicidal idea and if Dad were here he’d strangle Dean, but the men who’d taken Sammy had obviously caught on to Dean’s strategy so he had to deviate.

To make up for the lack of protection Dean had taken to sleeping in the most unapparent place. He’d chosen this particular building for the fact that he could push up the ceiling tiles and bed down in the crawl space. It was cramped, stuffy, damned uncomfortable, dusty, and smelled moldy and stale, but it was safe or as safe as possible. He alternated the rooms every night, never sleeping in the same place twice, and he slept in cycles.

The sleeping in cycles was for two reasons. He couldn’t seem to sleep for more than a few hours at a time, and he just went with it because if he didn’t stick to a consistent schedule there would be no definite time period where the hostile group could catch him unaware. He was completely unpredictable.

Of course it also meant he was active during the night sometimes which was decidedly a bad idea and unnerving as heck, but it gave him instances where he was pretty sure he wasn’t being watched.

Because he was being watched. In the three days since Sam had disappeared, Dean had experienced several instances in which he felt the presence of another thinking human being. Dad had taught them to hone and trust their instincts, and four years into this End of Days Dean had developed a good sense for when something more cognitively aware than an Infected was around him.

He’d tried locating the watchers, giving chase more than a few times only to hit dead ends. The people he was hunting were obviously far more familiar with the city than he was. He had managed to narrow his hunting ground down though each day that wore by served only to wind up tighter the anxiety refusing to leave him. If anything happened to Sam, well, Dean honestly had no idea what he would do and he refused to think about it.

He’d get Sam back. There was no other option.

Find Sammy.

That was his only concern right now.

He slipped out a semi-hidden exit from the office building and almost instantly felt the heavy gaze of being watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and the niggling nudge pressed against his mind incessantly. He swore softly, he’d have to switch buildings, and carefully made his way down the alley stepping around scattered garbage cans and trash.

An Infected stumbled past the opening to the street and Dean shrank back, pressing himself into the bricks waiting for the reanimated corpse to amble by and giving it time to make headway down the next block before heading in the other direction.

He wandered aimlessly, hoping to dislodge whoever was following him. After several long minutes without success Dean opted for option two, hurrying down yet another small alley and crouching behind a dumpster. If who ever was following him today was intent on getting personal Dean wouldn’t complain. After all, he’d spent three days trying to chase them down. Letting them come to him wasn’t ideal, more than likely they had waited until they believed themselves properly equipped to take him on before engaging. Being armed only with firearms—which were useless in the city unless he wanted to bite the dust as well in the much more painful manner of becoming a human happy-meal—and his machete, he would much prefer to be the instigator thereby gaining the advantage of surprise.

Three days into this cat and mouse game, though, meant he was willing to bring a knife to a gunfight so to speak. He wasn’t entirely sure what weapon his adversary would have but hoped he wouldn't be too outmatched.

The continually throbbing cut on his right arm meant he’d have to fight left-handed, yet another mark not in his favor, but he was capable of doing so. He’d have to favor his right side, make sure his opponent remained unaware of their advantage and had no opportunities to exploit it. The fact that they’d nabbed Sammy left him unsure of their combat skills. Sam was a kid, sure, but he was a fast and well trained kid. Dean could only hope they’d gotten him with surprise and brute force of two though the idea made him sick to his stomach.

A crunch against the gravel littered ground brought his thoughts to a screeching halt, mind going clear to assess only in the present. Whoever had been following him was going slow now, evidently onto the fact that something was up. Dean exhaled softly and prayed they would remain ignorant long enough for him to have the upper hand.

With excruciating slowness the man crept forward. Dean waited until the man was just to the edge of the dumpster before pushing up from the ground and propelling himself to the right.

He slashed at the stranger, managing to land a glancing blow on the ribs as the man hissed and jerked away. Dean tightened his grip and swung again but his element of surprise was quickly lost. The man dodged and bodily grabbed Dean, picking him up easily and slamming him into the wall.

Dean coughed as his head smacked the bricks and the air was forced from his body. He almost dropped his knife from the jarring impact and managed to snag his fingers around it at the last second.

It was obvious, plainly and painfully obvious, that he was outmatched and this little ambush had been a terrible idea. The man was massive, a hulking height easily six or so inches taller than Dean and nearly twice as wide, hosting an rather impressive muscle mass. His clothes and face were grimy, teeth rotten in his savagely smiling mouth. His breath was fetid making Dean gag as he breathed.

Dean kicked out, aiming for the man’s groin. He wasn’t above fighting dirty if the situation called for it and this definitely did. He didn’t think he hit his target but the man grunted and dropped him anyway. Dean didn’t let the opportunity go to waste lashing out with the knife again. The man blocked him crowding in close.

In a fight like this Dean’s strengths were in his speed and maneuverability. Both were effectively combated by the enclosed location and the man’s nearness. Letting the man too close meant Dean didn’t have the room to dodge or attack.

He skipped back, trying to regain the distance he needed but found himself backed against the dumpster he’d hidden behind initially. He desperately dodged a few attempted punches, retaliating with a couple of his own but doing little damage. He was outclassed and it was time for a retreat. If he could escape the alley he might be able to loose the larger man in a foot chase.

Dean made a break for it, leaping over a trashcan and sprinting for the alley opening. Thundering steps tracked him, closing in. He darted around the corner and choked as his coat and shirt were yanked back. He twisted desperately, striking out unthinkingly with his right arm.

An iron grip clamped around his forearm and a scream ripped itself from his throat as fingers dug painfully into the slowly healing cut. He felt the stitches wrench and twist, agony blossoming followed by a spreading warmth.

Dean was slammed to the ground, the man pinning Dean with his massive body weight. Dean gasped pulling at his arm. The man snarled and simply dug his fingers deeper. “You know how you hunt animals?” he growled. “Track ‘em and use their weaknesses. A little bait don’t hurt none either.”

Dean moaned bucking his body fruitlessly, fear that he wasn’t making it out of this overtaking his mind.

“You and your baby brother came to our territory. You’re ours now.” Hands clamped around his neck, digging in and cutting off his air. Dean struggled, clawing at the hands. He tried to break the hold, Dad had shown him millions of times how, but the man’s arms may as well have been made of steel for all the progress Dean made. He punched futilely but the awkward angle meant he could get next to no power behind his hits.

Spots danced across his vision and Dean panicked reaching up blindly and plunging his fingers in the man’s eyes in a last ditched effort to get free. It worked, the man howled and the hands vanished as the man threw himself backwards.

Dean gasped, struggling to his feet hurriedly and sprinting away. It was more of a stumbling jog, and Dean heard the man begin to lumber after him cursing and threatening though Dean couldn’t focus to understand much of what he was saying.

Dean burst out onto a largely open street catching sight of quite a few Infected who began to shamble towards him. He cast his gaze around for an escape route. Seeing a manhole, he threw caution to the wind, pulling the heavy cover aside and throwing himself down just as the man emerged onto the street behind him.

The fall down was momentarily terrifying and he landed roughly with a bone-jarring thud in knee deep rancid water tumbling forward to catch himself. He thrashed, paying little attention to how filthy he was getting as he struggled to his feet and took off down the sewer tunnel. He rounded the bend hearing a splash behind him and hauled himself out of the water on the edge, jogging along with a lot less noise now.

Spotting a heavily shadowed alcove he shoved himself in, pressing as far back as possible and praying he wouldn’t be spotted. The man was still shouting, splashing water loudly as he hollered threats and curses. Dean prayed the fact that he’d poked the dude’s eyes meant he couldn’t see well, prayed he would give up the chase, and prayed desperately that they wouldn’t hurt Sam because of this.

* * *

Sam heard the man shouting up a storm long before he saw him. Jared. The one who’d been going out after Dean and had failed to bring him back for three days now. This day would be the fourth, and Sam couldn’t help the small smirk of pride at his brother’s ability to evade Jared. Dean was always the best at this cloak and dagger stuff, which seemed odd to Sam considering Dean’s rather impatient personality. But Dean was good at whatever he put his mind to; he was brilliant that way.

In the three days since Sam had been captured the people had done little more than ignore him, occasionally throw him a bottle of water and can of beans, and take him on regular bathroom breaks. Whatever they wanted him for, they were waiting and not keen on causing him harm beforehand. It was something Sam was both thankful for and nervous about. It gave Dean more time to find him, but also gave him plenty of time to conjure up thousands of reasons the people wanted him for. The cages were in the main strong room so after the initial night in darkness Sam was never left alone, and the group was surprisingly talkative as long as they believed they were in control of the conversation.

The old man had introduced himself as Jack Bender, the two other men being his sons Jared and Lee, and the creepy girl between Sam and Dean’s age was his daughter Missy. They were from the upper Midwest; a small town called Hibbing, Minnesota. The virus outbreak had been like a godsend to them, allowing them to move freely from their hometown and onto newer hunting grounds without fear of the law. According to Papa Bender it had been a sign that what they were doing was right and permitted by God.

Sam thought they were lunatics, but Jack had laughed a full on belly laugh when he’d called them on it. For all Jack and the others talked though, they never gave a clear reason on why he was locked in a cage. He got enough vague allusions to conclude they would definitely be killing him, but didn’t understand why they were waiting until they had Dean as well.

“You aren’t going to catch him, you know,” Sam said firmly from his corner in the cage. Jared stopped mid-rant to his father, spinning to glare at Sam through the bars. Sam met his gaze, refusing to be cowed and hoped Jared wouldn’t hear his thundering heart. “You won’t get him.”

Jared growled slamming his palms against the cage and yanking at the bars. “I will get him, you little brat!” he spat. He pressed his face close, eyes red and watery as they glinted, and Sam shifted back swallowing heavily. Jared sneered lowering his tone to barely above a whisper. “He can’t run forever. He’ll falter and fall and _I_ will be there to take him down. I’ll keep him alive as long as possible, slicing and dicing until he is begging me for death. And when he does I’ll relish in the moment I slit his throat and watch the life and blood drain from him.”

Sam glared at him, unable to speak over the clamoring of his heart and icy fear spreading through him. In that moment he wished Dean would just run, run far and fast, and not come for him. This was the first time Sam had been spoken to directly like this, with Jared holding back no details of what he intended to do to Dean, and the hungry, downright predatory gleam in Jared’s eyes scared Sam.

“You’re brother will make a pretty corpse,” Jared continued. “Maybe I can have some fun with him after. Or before.” Sam’s breath caught and he clenched his hands to keep himself from launching at Jared. “Or maybe I’ll give ‘im to Missy,” Jared mused looking thoughtful. “She likes pretty things. His eyes will make a good addition to her collection. Don’t think she has that shade of green yet.”

Sam screamed at the implication and threw himself at the door shoving his hands through the bars. How close had Jared gotten to know Dean’s eyes were green? Sam’s fingers grazed Jared’s clothes as he fell back in shock, having not expected such a reaction from Sam. “Don’t you touch him,” Sam growled, retracting his hands to grip the bars as he glared daggers. “Don’t you frigging _touch_ him.”

Jared chuckled and picked himself up, carefully staying out of Sam’s reach as he leaned forward to whisper, “Too late for that.”

Sam slammed his hands into the bars, relishing in the slight sting as his eyes flooded with tears of desperation and despair and Jared continued to laugh at his expense.

“Yer brother sure does look pretty when he’s scared. Green eyes wide and bright, panting from the exertion, tremblin’ like a frightened kitten. Fights dirty though, like a coward,” he spat.

Sam cursed, shouting profanity and threats, uncaring that his carefully constructed façade of indifference he’d created over the past days was undone in moments. He wanted to dig his fingers in Jared’s throat and squeeze until the life left his eyes. He wanted to stab Jared over and over, listen to his screams and his suffering. He wanted to kill Jared a thousand times for whatever he’d done to Dean.

“Stop botherin’ the kid and get yer ass over here and finish tellin’ me what happened,” Jack said from his seat at the rickety table in the corner of the room, raising his voice over Sam’s shouting.

Jared sighed but followed his father’s order, and Sam slumped against the bars falling silent. Yelling wasn't helping anything, and he wanted to know what Jared had to say more than Jack did.

“Explain yerself,” Jack drawled taking a swig from a dirty bottle of alcohol. “Three days and you still haven’t gotten the other runt.”

“’e’s not a runt, Pa,” Jared protested petulantly. “He’s a fighter. A dirty fighter, but a fighter.”

“What happened to your clothes?” Jack said, wrinkling his nose a bit in disgust. “They’re filthy.”

Sam was surprised the old man even noticed, the Benders certainly weren’t clean people, probably hadn’t been before the outbreak and certainly weren’t now, so the fact that Jack even bothered to call Jared on his rank clothing, which was smeared with questionable substances, was shocking.

Jared frowned and looked down at his stiff clothes. “I was followin’ the boy, was gonna nab ‘im today. He caught on and jumped me in an alley. Got a couple hits in but I had him. Slammed ‘im into the wall good. Probably cracked a couple ribs. He tried to get away, but I grabbed him. Used the arm like you said to. It dropped him like a sack of potatoes and had him wailin’ in pain. Beautiful sight,” he added with a grin, shooting a sidelong glance at Sam.

Sam clenched his jaw hoping ‘used his arm’ didn’t mean what he thought it meant. Dean’s arm had been healing slowly as it was and if Jared broke Dean’s stitches Sam was going to come up with a new and more painful way of killing him.

“So I had him down and was choking him and the little bastard pokes me in the eyes,” Jared exclaimed gesturing up at his red and watery eyes. “Right dirty fighter he is. Still can’t see straight.”

Sam smiled. Dean would do something like poke the guy choking him in the eyes. When they were younger, before the outbreak, it had been Dean’s favorite piece of advice to shout at the people being choked in horror movies. And after the person died or was knocked out, Dean would scoff and claim that if they’d just poked the dude in the eyes then they could have gotten away and the guy would have trouble following because he wouldn’t be able to see clearly through the tears streaming down his face. He reckoned they never did it in movies because it wouldn’t look good to have the big bad manly man cry.

“You tellin’ me the runt got away because he poked you in the eye?” Jack said, condescendingly disbelieving. Jared shifted looking uncomfortable and nodded.

“Yeah, Pa. But the bitch dug his fingers in. Felt like he was tryin’ to pry me eyeballs out,” he complained. Jack waved his hand gesturing Jared to forget about it and move on. “So then he took off again. Ran out onto a bigger street. Got away from me,” Jared finished simply.

Sam relaxed. So Dean hadn’t taken that much damage. The possible bruised or cracked ribs worried him, as well as the bruises Dean no doubt had on his neck, but it all probably wasn’t anything to be too concerned about. The stitches were worrisome, but Dean had antibiotics now. He’d be okay.

“Then the psycho kid dove down a godforsaken manhole,” Jared continued with a tone of incredulity. “Just throws himself down. That’s a fifteen-foot drop, Pa. So I chased him, but ya know its dark down there and he slipped away.”

Sam sat forward is shock. What had possessed Dean to throw himself down a manhole? Jumps like that into a dark, unknown areas were stupid as Hell. Dean was lucky he hadn’t broken something; well, Sam hoped Dean hadn’t broken anything. It was a good bet he hadn’t if he’d still managed to lose Jared, but even so Dean had made a lot of dumb calls without Sam there to double check his decision making. Not that Dean had been listening very well lately; that was part of what had gotten them into this whole mess.

Jack leaned back in his chair running an appraising glance over his son. “I’ll come with you tomorrow. Seems to me the runt may need two people to take him down. We can leave Lee here with Missy since he’s a bit incapacitated thanks to our little friend here,” he said frowning in Sam’s direction.

Sam sneered at him and shuffled back to sit in his corner. Lee and Jared usually picked up drifters like Sam and Dean together, but Sam had landed a lucky shot when they’d caught him, shooting Lee square in the right butt cheek. Lee wasn’t too happy about it, and Sam was none too happy about the fact that the Benders seemed well enough off on medical supplies that Lee wasn’t likely to kick the bucket from infection despite their squalor living conditions.

Jack took another swig then pointed at the door. “Well go get cleaned up, boy. Won’t have you lying around all filthy with sewer water. Go on.”

Jared departed, leaving Sam and Jack alone once more. The oldest Bender stared at Sam appraisingly. “Your brother is the hardest one we’ve had to track yet. I like the challenge, but he is beginning to piss me off. You can only follow behind a deer so long before you tire of the game and bring it down.” Jack took another deep pull from the bottle and stood to crouch in front of Sam’s cage. “What I’m tryin’ to say, boy, is that we will catch him.”

Sam met his gaze easily and shook his head. “No, you won’t. Dean’s the best. You won’t catch him.”

“So his name’s Dean, huh?” Jack said with a smile and Sam mentally kicked himself but forced his expression to remain impassive. What did it matter if they knew Dean’s name? “Strong name,” Jack breathed. “The name of a natural born leader. Means chief or law in Hebrew.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and glared at Jack, not liking the way he was dissecting Dean by his name. Jack sighed and stood, walking to the door.

“Dean will hunt you down,” Sam said. Jack halted in the door, not even turning around. “He will find me. And he is going to kill each and every one of you,” Sam finished, a note of finality in his tone.

Jack chuckled; turning his head to just cast his voice back to Sam. “We’ll see.”


	6. Chapter Six

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Dean grit his teeth, breathing out in sharp puffs as he hauled his water logged self up the ladder to the street above him. His arm was stinging and throbbing in tandem with his breathing and his ankle was pulsating steadily, probably sprained from his jacked up landing earlier.

He’d waited God knows how long in that dark alcove after the man tracking him had left. Then he’d wandered around in the sewers searching for another way out because there was no way he was going back to the surface the same way he’d come down.

He reached the manhole cover taking a tight breath and bracing his back against the opposite wall, putting most of his weight on his good foot. He shoved at the cover with his shoulder and used his left arm to push it up and over wincing at the loud scrape and clang.

Swearing at the dark sky overhead he slowly and painfully heaved himself out and collapsed on the blacktop. He took a deep breath of fresh air, well fresher than sewer air, and let his eye close for a moment. Exhausted and in agony he almost wanted to just stay still and rest. What would it hurt if he just rested for a moment?

A clang jerked him awake with heart stopping suddenness and he quickly rolled over wondering at what point he’d managed to fall asleep. He tried to push himself up to his hands and knees, his head spinning a little. Groaning he crawled over to the nearest vehicle, using it as leverage to pull himself into a standing position.

There were several Infected meandering down the street. One of them must have been kind enough to knock something over and wake him up. The fact that he’d somehow fallen asleep worried him, he was supposed to be more alert than that. Dear Lord, Dad would tan his hide for making that rookie mistake. Jesus, he was better trained than that.

He wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead and shivered as the air buffeted his wet clothes. He needed a place to rest, get his bearings back. It was an awkward mix of jogging and shambling as he made his way down the street, hobbling a little on his tender ankle. That need wrapped or it was gonna swell up good; luckily it didn’t feel broken or he’d be in real trouble.

Dean rounded the street corner, breathing heavily and leaning against the wall. He bit his lip, groaning at his aches and spotting a few Infected wandering about. Two a little nearer than the others apparently caught his scent and began shuffling a bit quicker in his direction.

He groaned again rolling his head in an attempt to loosen his clenching neck muscles. He stopped; head arched back and frowned as he stared into the building behind him. It looked like a library and was trashed, but what caught his attention was the wide rafters about four feet above the top of the bookcases. It looked like there had once been a second floor that had been removed, but load-bearing beams had to be incorporated into the architecture. Perfect.

The door was already broken in, so it was little trouble to gain entrance. Once inside he clamored up a bookcase, having to try three times before managing to make it on top. He took a slight breather then inelegantly hauled himself onto the beam. He shuffled back until he was leaning against the column. The two Infected who had spotted him earlier followed him inside the library, and Dean watched as they came to a halt against the bookcase below him, stretching their arms up and moaning at their food just out of reach.

Dean sighed and let his head fall back against the pillar. He swallowed thickly and wished his head would stop spinning because it was starting to upset his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on taking even breaths and lamented the fact that he had no water.

The Infected kept moaning beneath him, thumping against the bookcase rhythmically, creating an odd kind of lullaby that lulled him to sleep without him even noticing.

* * *

Dean jerked awake with a gasp, memories of his mom fading as he blinked rapidly against the harshness of the light. It was freaking painful as Hell and he buried his head in his arms for a couple minutes breathing carefully until his head no longer felt like a man with a jackhammer was going apeshit on his brain.

He opened his eyes once more, slower this time, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the wall of windows. He blinked, attempting to rid the blurriness from his eyes and hoping the multiple Infected in the library and many more pressed against the windows would disappear too.

When they failed to do so he counted them, coming up with a total of thirteen the first time, seventeen the second, and twelve the third time. “Crap,” he muttered. He shifted and immediately froze, gasping at the agony tearing through his arm.

Breathing tightly he pushed himself back against the pillar, biting down hard on his lip to keep as quiet as possible. Once the pain faded a bit he cautiously shucked off his jacket his right arm. Dark red stains blotted his flannel shirt, which he peeled off slowly, wincing as it pulled on the shirt and bandages underneath. He tugged the long sleeve of his undershirt up above his elbow at a glacial speed, biting his lip hard enough to taste blood.

The bandage was soggy with blood and rancid water. Dean unwound it bit by bit, breaths quickening as he pulled away the layers. The bandage fell away to reveal torn and abused skin, red and enflamed. He swallowed heavily and looked away from the ruined flesh as acidic bile tried to force its way up his throat. He took a shaky steadying breath and tried to inspect the wound as best he could.

When the man had grabbed Dean’s arm his fingers must have dug into the cut at precisely the right angle to tear at the stitches. Most of the stitches were broke, some torn out of the skin and some snapped. He’d have to pick them all out before tending to the rest of the gash. What concerned him the most was the smell and the puss leaking out sluggishly. Another goddamned infection. Probably too advanced to treat with antibiotics alone, not that he had any, and most likely the reason he felt so lethargic and unable to focus.

How many Infected were around him? He didn’t have a goddamned clue. Just like where the Hell was he? Right, focus. Where the Hell was Sam? He needed Sam. Sam was missing. That’s why the idiotic man had grabbed Dean’s arm and chased him into the sewers. Damnit.

“You gotta focus, Dean.”

Dean jumped, nearly falling off the beam. Dad was crouched on the beam across from him, hands clasped loosely before him, dressed in a clean and pressed white button up tucked into crisp blue jeans.

“Dad,” Dean said, swallowing thickly. He frowned puzzled. “The Hell you been?”

“You gotta focus, Dean. That infection is bad. You have to get up.”

Dean sighed leaning back against the pillar. “I’m tired.”

“I know, kiddo. But you gotta move. There’s more Infected coming. They’re being attracted by the ones already here. So get up,” Dad said.

Dean huffed but obligingly clamored to his feet, bracing himself against the column as his head swam.

“Steady does it, Dean.”

Dean nodded then stared down at his arm a moment before carefully donning his flannel shirt and jacket. He twisted his ankle experimentally, surprised and relieved to find it only a little sore. The sprain must not have been as bad has he’d originally thought which was just frigging awesome because he’d never gotten around to wrapping for some reason.

He leaned against the pillar staring out across the destroyed library. Sam would have a fit over it, little twerp loved books. If it was socially acceptable he’d probably marry one. Well with the Outbreak who gave a flying pig about social acceptability. Sam could be polybookous for all Dean cared, though he’d personally rather be polygamous himself. That is if he could even find more than one woman; it was rather difficult to find one who didn’t want to chow down on his face in a way that was decidedly not his idea of fun. Kissing was good…eating was bad.

“Dean!”

Dean blinked looking back at his father. Dad was staring at him, a concerned expression Dean hadn’t seen on him in years plastered across his face.

“What?” Dean asked. “How did you even get here? You were missing.”

“It doesn't matter right now. What matters is you,” Dad said, his rumbling tone reassuring and soothing. Dean nodded.

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“Good.” Dad said. “Across from you is another beam. You need to jump to it. To your right will be another column. Get around that and you’ll see a wall of windows to a second floor. The windowpane of the bottom right is broken out. It’s a bit small but you should fit. Go through it.”

Dean nodded again. “What about you?” he asked, not wanting to leave Dad behind now that he’d just found him. In a goddamned library of all places.

“I’ll take care of me, Dean,” Dad said. “You take care of you.”

“Sam’s missing. Some frigging people took him,” Dean said realizing he hadn’t filled Dad in. “I have to get him back.”

“I know, Dean. And you will, but you gotta be alive to get him so do as I tell you.”

“Right,” Dean muttered. He looked at the beam across from him. It was probably a good four-foot jump. And if he missed he’d be zombie chow. Shit. Well, no time like the present to die.

He took a deep breath, inched back as far as he could on his beam then pushed off from the edge, closing his eyes praying to God he didn’t fall short. He slammed into the other beam with a cut off cry of pain as his ribs screamed in protest. He caught the edge as slid off, clinging with all his might. His feet connected with several hands below him, all eagerly trying to grab him.

“Dean! Pull yourself up. Come on, boy! Pull yourself up! That’s an order, Dean!”

Dean scrambled to find purchase on anything, arms trembling from strain and his gash searing. He felt it pull and fresh blood begin leaking down his arm. He grit his teeth and pulled up, unable to stifle another cry of pain as he drug himself inch by agonizing inch onto the beam. He collapsed on it, gasping and curling around his chest, which felt like it was on fire. His lungs spasmed as he coughed and curled in on himself tighter.

“Get up, Dean. You can’t rest now. You have to get up,” Dad coached.

Dean shook his head weakly.

“Yes you can. Come on, kiddo. Get up, please.” Dad coaxed. Dean shook his head again, letting his eyes flutter shut. Dad paused letting Dean lay in silence. Dean could feel his mood shifting, and instinctively knew his next words wouldn’t be as kind.

“On your feet, soldier!” Dad thundered, full on commanding tone. Dean winced but looked up. It was a conditioned reaction, couldn’t be ignored. “Get up!”

Dean ground his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “Yes, sir.”

“Proceed, soldier.”

Dean moved on autopilot, following Dad’s instructions. He inched around the column, crawling through the broken window Dad had told him he’d find. It was a tight fit, but Dean managed. The room he was in seemed to be some sort of a classroom, art by the looks of it. He must be in a school.

“This way, Dean,” his Dad called from the doorway.

Dean followed his Dad numbly down the hallways. He was lost within seconds even though he was pretty sure he was supposed to be able to keep track of such a simple floor plan.

Dad led him down a couple flights of stairs then through another maze of dimly lit hallways. “In here, Dean,” he called behind a closed door. Dean blinked, uncertain as to when Dad had disappeared in front of him to get behind the door, but opened it to follow his dad in.

The room was the school kitchen and it was trashed having most likely been a prime target for supplies in the beginning of the Outbreak. “What are we doing here, Dad?” Dean asked leaning against the counter watching his Dad flicker around the room. Dad disappeared and Dean blinked as he was suddenly left alone. “Dad?”

“You need to cauterize that cut,” Dad said from behind Dean. Dean jumped, nearly crashing to the floor as he spun around.

“You’re not serious,” Dean said, once he steadied himself again. Dad merely looked at him. “You are serious,” Dean said. He scoffed then laughed, doubling over as it set his ribs aflame but unable to stop.

“That cut is serious. It was bad before I left and it’s worse now,” Dad said.

“Yeah, but cauterizing is…it’s not…smart,” Dean said.

Dad nodded conceding to the point. “It’s not. But you haven’t got much of a choice. There’s some matches in the back of the cupboard there. Get them.”

Dean huffed but followed his dad’s orders, stretching on his toes to drag the nearly empty book of matches from where they’d somehow gotten wedged in the corner.

“Good. Now pull that pot over to the stove,” Dad ordered pointing at a medium sized saucepan. Dean picked it up placing it on the left burner before turning to look expectantly at Dad.

“There’s a knife just under that island. Left corner,” Dad said. Dean shuffled over to the island, dropping with a groan to one knee to fish the knife out. It was a steak knife, with a serrated edge. Dean used the island to pull himself back into a standing position and blew the dust off the knife. Dad gestured to the stove. “Bring it here. Then get the dishtowels from the cupboard two down from the right. There’s a stack. Bring them all.”

Dean set the knife on the counter and fetched the towels, a bit surprised to see the crisp white fabric. It’d been awhile since he’d seen such clean fabric and it reminded him of Mom. She’d always kept such clean towels in the kitchen—

“Dean.”

Right. Dad, outbreak of zombie virus, very important infection. Focus, Dean, focus. He brought the towels back, sweeping his hand over the counter to remove the worst of the grime and dust before setting the pristine towels down.

“In the back of the freezer is a case of water,” Dad said. “Get it.”

Dean leaned on the counter and shot Dad a sour look. “The Hell is all this stuff doing in here?” he asked.

Dad scowled and jerked his head in the direction of the freezer. Dean sighed and headed for the freezer Dad’s voice following him. “Nobody wanted dishtowels in the beginning, Dean. Not much use for them. And if you look in the freezer there’s some canned food and a pile of blankets, it was being used as a base camp,” he paused and cleared his throat. “They’re long gone now. I’m sure they’d want you to use the supplies.”

Dean drug the water out to the stove. Following Dad’s instructions he wet one towel, using it to clean out the pot before dumping about half the bottles of water into it and lighting the stove. He lit a second burner and set the knife in the flame after wiping it off as well. He slid to the floor, cradling his arm against his chest as he waited for the water to boil.

Dad roused him what seemed like seconds later, and Dean was surprised to find the water boiling merrily. He climbed to his feet and blearily looked at Dad. “How long should I let it boil?”

“It’s boiled long enough,” Dad replied. “Sterilize your pocketknife. Then shut it off and let it cool. There’s a bottle of whiskey in the freezer. Get it.”

Dean frowned at him but did as he was told, using one towel to sterilize his pocketknife before cutting off the flow of propane. He fetched the alcohol then leaned against the counter, not wanting to sit for fear he’d lose time again. That seemed to be happening quite a bit. After about ten minutes he poked the side of the pot, finding it relatively warm but not too hot to the touch. “Now what?”

Dad flickered seeming to disappear for a moment, but the next he was solid again. It occurred to Dean that it wasn’t normal behavior and he was most likely delirious. His arm smarted, as if in agreement with his thoughts, and he glanced at the array of tools and supplies spread in front of him. He was feverish, no wonder he kept loosing time. How could he be sure any of this was even really happening?

He looked back at Dad realizing for the first time he looked younger and was wearing clean clothes. This was pre-Outbreak Dad. Dad was still missing, and Dean was still alone.

“Dean? Are you listening, son?”

Dean shook his head, wiping at his eyes and turning away. “You’re not real. You’re still missing. Sammy too. I’m alone.” He stumbled, leaning heavily against the counter and sliding to the floor. His stomach hurt and he felt cold and faint though he could feel the sweat slick against his face.

“Dean, listen to me. You are not alone, okay. I am here,” Dad said crouching in front of him.

Dean shook his head, deciding it didn’t matter if Dad saw his friggin’ tears or not. He wasn’t real. “Please, stop. Why are you doing this? I can’t find you and I lost Sammy so you, you—do this? My brain hates me.” Dean rambled.

“Dean, focus, buddy. You gotta focus.” It was odd, but Dean thought his pseudo-Dad sounded scared though he wasn’t sure why.

“I failed,” he said. “You gave me one job. One job. Protect Sammy,” he laughed bitterly. “And I fucked it up. I freaking lost him. Left him alone. Shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“You haven’t failed, Dean. Sam’s alive. Okay? Listen to me, Sammy is alive. And you gotta make sure you stay alive too, all right? You and Sam…you’re all you have left. You need to stick together, it’s the only way through all this,” Dad said earnestly. “So you have to get up, Dean. And you gotta follow my orders. One last time.”

Dean frowned, leaning against the cool cabinets. He felt good here. It was nice, to just stay here. But if Dad was right, Sammy needed him. “Aye, aye, Captain. What do I gotta do?” he whispered, prying his eyes open to look at Dad.

Dad grinned, and Dean thought his eyes looked a little damp, which was ridiculous because hallucinations didn’t cry. “Atta, boy.”

Dad ran through the instructions three times before he gave Dean the go ahead to start. Dean was shaking and sweaty, but he was determined to make his Dad proud. He was cold without his coat and shirts but his clothes were filthy so there wasn’t much he could do about it.

He cleaned his hands first, being careful not to contaminate the rest of the sanitized water. Next he worked on his arm, washing it off first with the water then tying his belt around his bicep to act like a tourniquet. He meticulously picked out every stitch with Dad helping since Dean was pretty sure he was seeing double or triple at times.

After that was done, Dean cleaned out the cut with the whiskey. It hurt like a bitch, and Dean didn’t even care if he was crying because it freaking _hurt_. Dad talked him through it; soothing words Dean couldn’t even register working to keep him going. He sterilized around the wound and scooped out the puss until the cut was relatively clean.

“Now the hard part, Dean,” Dad said.

Dean chuckled from where he was collapsed weakly against the counter. “What? You mean that wasn’t it?”

“’Fraid not, kiddo,” Dad said sadly. “But you’re doing great.”

Dean took a deep breath and nodded. “If you say so. What now?”

“Grab the sterilized knife,” Dad instructed, waiting until Dean had the blade gripped in his hand before continuing. “Douse it with the whiskey then you’re going to cut out the infected part. Cut from below the beginning of the cut to above it. You want to make sure you get it all.”

Dean stared at him. “I don’t think—” he started.

“You can,” Dad said evenly. “You can.”

Dean took a deep breath then dug the blade in before he could think anymore about it. He whimpered but kept cutting, Dad keeping up a stead flow of encouraging words in his ear. It took forever and Dean was feeling lightheaded by the time he finished dropping the bloodied knife to the floor.

“Good, you did good, Dean,” Dad said. “The blood is red. Looks like you got it all.”

“Frigging great, Cap’t,” Dean gasped.

“Now the hot knife, Dean,” Dad said. Dean twisted to grab the knife from the stove. It was practically glowing, white hot. He could feel the heat emanating from it on his hand and face. He looked at Dad seeking reassurance from his Dad’s gaze. Dad nodded.

“Bite down on a towel, son.”

Dean stuffed a towel in his mouth, lined the blade up, closed his eyes and pressed down. It was excruciating and Dean screamed jerking back against the counter. The smell of burning flesh turned his stomach and he felt tears leak from the corner of his eyes. Dad was talking to him, no doubt murmuring comforts and apologies but Dean couldn’t focus enough to listen. He held the blade on as long as he could before tossing it away and yanking the towel out with a choked sob.

He clenched his hand not wanting to move incase it increased the pain pulsating through his arm. He sucked in steadying breaths trying to find his center against the pain again. After a long moment he flicked his eyes open to see Dad crouched over him worriedly.

“Dean? Are you with me, kiddo? Come on.”

Dean nodded and reached over to fumble at the belt buckle. He got it off after a couple of tries relieved to see no leaks. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to go through another cauterization process. He leaned back letting his eyes slip shut.

“No. Come on, Dean. It’s not safe out here. You have to move to the freezer.”

Dean groaned but rolled over, cradling his arm to his chest as he drug himself toward the freezer.

“Dean. Take the whiskey and some water with you.”

He was pretty sure he muttered some choice colorful phrases at his father, but he did as told grabbing the whisky and somehow managing to use the plastic to pull what remained of the water behind him. He made it to the freezer eventually, collapsing to the floor almost as soon as he was inside. Following his Dad’s instruction he found a bottle of antibiotics tucked behind some canned beans and downed three or four of them along with a bottle of water. He followed that with several long swigs of whiskey and quit fighting the darkness calling his name.

He thought he could still hear his father murmuring to him, telling him he was safe and looked after. If he let himself, he could pretend he felt Dad’s arms wrapping comfortingly around him, and he cried because his delusional mind was exceedingly cruel.


	7. Chapter Seven

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Three more days passed with no sign from Dean. Jared and Jack went out a couple times but could pick up no trail on him. Dean had as good as vanished. The Benders were beginning to think he’d never made it out of the sewers and had become zombie food, which did not bode well for Sam. His countdown clock had just leapt ahead and each day was full of uncertainties.

Sam, however, maintained Dean was still alive and made sure to vocalize his opinion on the matter as much as possible to both hopefully prolong his own life and lower the Benders’ morale, though he didn’t seem to be making much headway in either.

It was surprisingly Missy, who insisted they keep looking for Dean a bit longer before killing Sam. As she said, if they found Dean they could have twice the fun, and they were in no danger of losing Sam so what was the harm in keeping him around for a bit?

Sam didn’t know whether to be grateful or disgusted so he settled for indifferent and returned to his practice of quietly observing from the corner of his cage.

But for all his adamant denial Dean’s apparent disappearance worried him and fostered a new batch of nightmares to terrorize him at night, but during the day Sam refused to believe Dean was anything but all right. Dean would come for him because that’s what Dean did.

* * *

Dean came too slowly, eyes lazily flicking open and it took him a moment to realize the world stayed dark even when his eyes were open. He jolted awake fully, sitting up in confusion at his inability to see. He hit his arm against something solid and winced in pain, quickly retracting his arm to protect it from any more unfortunate collisions.

After the initial burst of panic he calmed enough to rationalize that he was probably in an enclosed room. A very faint glow near the floor across from him supported his theory, and he climbed shakily to his feet, leaning against what felt like shelving for support. He ran his hands over the door and came to the conclusion that he was in a freezer. The how and the why eluded him however, so he grabbed the lever and heaved the door open.

He blinked at the sight and light that greeted him. He was in a school’s freezer apparently. Turning back around he inspected the freezer in the dim lighting. There were empty water bottles and three full ones, a mostly empty bottle of whiskey, a pill bottle and a pile of blankets he’d woken up on.

He looked back to the kitchen, confusion mounting by the second. His arm pulled uncomfortably and Dean held it out to inspect. A long, and wide burn covered where he’d cut it weeks ago, still an angry pink but looking rather healthy all things considered. He blinked, looking further and realizing that his shirts and jacket had apparently been lost somewhere. Which left him standing half naked in a school’s kitchen with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Well, crap if that didn’t make him feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

Cautiously, Dean moved out of the relative safety of the freezer to inspect the kitchen. The sight of the bloodied floor, towels and discarded knives twisted his stomach, and he blinked hard against the red bathed images of pain trying to surface in his mind. Shaking his head he turned away catching sight of a pile of dark fabric—his jacket and shirt. Which meant the blood on the floor and knives was probably his. Looking closer he realized the one knife was actually his pocketknife carelessly discarded in a pool of congealed blood. Fantastic.

Picking up his shirts and jacket he wrinkled his nose at the smell, eventually deciding trying to salvage them wasn’t worth it. They smelled like crap. His pants did too, but there was no way he was walking around in his birthday suit so he’d just have to suck it up.

A million questions still bouncing around in his head, he grabbed a blanket from the freezer tossing several cans of food and bottles of water on it. As an afterthought he added the whiskey. He paused at the pill bottle twisting it open to peer inside. It was almost empty. The label was some long scientific word Sam would be able to decipher but meant nothing to Dean. They were antibiotics though, of the penicillin subgroup. Strong stuff if the prescription type bottle was anything to go by.

He bit his lip but ultimately downed a few before tossing it in with the rest of the stuff. Tying the four corners of the small blanket together, Dean carried it like a sack, pausing to clean off most of the blood from his knife before leaving.

Dean may not know how he ended up in that school freezer or what had happened to put him there, but he knew one thing. He knew where to find Sam. He didn’t know how he knew but he did. And it was time to get Sammy back.

* * *

Sam woke with a jolt, unsure what alerted him, but rising to his haunches and straining his ears for any sound within seconds. He’d been sleeping much better here than he had in quite a while, since before Dean had been injured truthfully. He was safe in the cage. Well safe from anything but the Benders and they were none to interested in him at the moment. But even so, he was still trained to be alerted by unusual noises.

Sam sat up further, awareness thrumming through him, survivor instincts catching a slight scuff from the other side of the door. He tensed and cast a quick glance around searching fruitlessly for some sort of weapon.

The door eased open, a shadowed figure slipping through framed by a soft glow of light. Sam slid quietly backwards, curling in the corner and pretending to be asleep all while watching with half-lidded eyes.

“Sam?”

Sam sat forward squinting at the silhouette and smiled. He would know that voice anywhere. “Dean.”

Dean shut the door and crossed the room quickly crouching in front of the cage. He grinned, shaking his head with a short chuckle. “Damn, it’s good to see you, kiddo. Are you hurt?”

“No. You?” Sam said, eagerly pushing against the door and raking his gaze over what he could see of Dean, searching for any sign of injuries. Dean seemed fine but was wearing a too large, bright blue t-shirt under what looked like a letterman jacket. “What are you _wearing_?” he asked half mocking, half serious.

“I'm fine,” Dean said in clipped tones. He cast a quick gaze down at his attire and rolled his eyes. “My shirt and jacket are, uh, indisposed.”

“From your sewer dive?” Sam asked eyeing Dean shrewdly.

Dean grimaced, probably having hoped Sam wouldn’t know about that, but he did. “Yeah, from my sewer dive. So I borrowed some of Joe Schmo’s from a locker room.” Dean shrugged his shoulders looking perturbed. “It’s, uh, a long story. I’ll fill you in later,” he said turning his attention to the large padlock and running his fingers over it with a frown. “Oh, this looks like it will be a bitch,” he muttered.

“Can’t you pick it?” Sam asked, raising one eyebrow. The padlock was big, sure, but both he and Dean would be able to pick it with the right tools in no time. Of course Sam didn’t have his anymore, but Dean always carried his set.

Dean shook his head. “Lost my kit,” he replied distractedly.

Sam’s eyes widened at that. Dean did not simply _lose_ his stuff. Things happened to make him lose his belongings. And those things had to be pretty big _things_ to make him lose or leave behind his possessions. “How did you _lose_ your kit?” he whispered harshly, wanting to know right now what had happened to Dean to drop him from the radar for three days only for him to just magically appear in the same room as Sam.

“I just did, all right. Lay off,” Dean snapped, clearly agitated. “Where’s the key?”

Sam sat back, subdued; evidently Dean’s mood hadn’t improved much as he was still short tempered. “I don’t know,” he said. “One of the men usually brings it in when they let me out.”

Dean nodded; looking back to the door and Sam could practically see him running possible courses of action through his mind. “Okay. Hold tight and I’ll be back.”

“Be careful,” Sam called softly just as his brother reached the door.

Dean paused and shot Sam his trademark smirk over his shoulder. “You know me.”

Sam sighed as Dean disappeared. “Yeah, that’s what worries me,” he muttered sitting back once more to wait.

* * *

Dean slipped out of the room Sam was in, flattening his back to the wall as he crept down the hallway. There was a faint light shining from the right side at the end and he could make out the soft clanking of what sounded like pots and pans being washed. He paused at the doorway, peeking around the corner to analyze the source of the light. An older man stood before a utility sink, washing dishes as Dean had suspected, by the soft glow of two firelight lanterns.

The man seemed utterly unaware of Dean’s presence and would hopefully stay that way. Dean cast a quick glance at the man once more before moving across the hallway to another room slightly illuminated by the lanterns. It seemed to be the central living space, housing several ratty couches and chairs as well as a shelving unit. Dean moved closer to the shelf peering at the multitude of jars with a sense of morbid interest. He couldn’t discern what the contents were and he swirled the jar before replacing it with a grimace at the lump filled liquid. He probably didn’t want know.

He moved further into the room, spotting a tray holding an impressive amount of keys. Crouching by the tray, he started digging through, cursing under his breath as he wondered what in the world they had all these stupid keys for. Most were vehicle keys, some he recognized as cars or trucks. Fords, GMCs, Chevys, even a goddamned Kia but nothing else. No keys for locks.

Dean swore looking around the room once again. His gaze landed on the more shadowed corner, frowning as he moved closer a sick feeling spreading through him at the photos taped and thumbtacked to the wall. Dean let out a short breath, horribly fascinated with the scenes depicted in front of him.

Every picture, every _goddamned_ picture had one or two or three men equipped with hunting gear and standing beside a dead person. In one the two younger men were kneeling on either side of a dead woman, one hand each tangled in her brown hair as they grinned at the camera in front of an abandoned deli shop. Another had the older man with one of the younger men on either side of a white haired man held upside down by his legs, a red stain dripping from his mouth into his hair and to the ground. In another, one man held the arm of a young boy with light brown hair. Dean reached out, touching the Polaroid softly disturbed by how much the boy resembled Sam. He swallowed tearing his eyes from the wall and catching sight of a stack of knives.

He leapt forward, reining himself in enough to not noisily scatter the knives about the room like a lunatic as he frantically dug through. His breath caught as he found the one he was looking for. A small five-inch gleaming silver blade. He flipped it over holding it up to the ambient light filtering in. The flickering flames glinted over the engraved initials of _J.W._

Dean scrambled back to the wall of photos inspecting each of them intently. When he didn’t find what he was looking for the first time he did it again. Then once more. He sighed and clutched the knife, allowing himself a short moment to close his eyes and thank the God he didn’t believe in. There were many photos, spanning years before and after the Outbreak, and each one turned Dean’s stomach and awakened a rage inside him. But not one, anywhere on the wall, was of John Winchester. His dad was not on the wall. Which meant these people didn’t kill him despite possessing his favorite blade. Dad was still alive, somewhere.

A small scuff sounded behind him and Dean tensed, inwardly berating himself for his lapse in focus even as he spun around raising he blade to a defensive position. What he didn’t expect however was the filthy young girl standing in the door. He frowned shifting back half a step. Sam had said nothing of a girl and there was no girl in any of the photos on the wall.

She stood silently, staying still enough that Dean thought perhaps she was a victim as well, somehow free unlike Sammy. Dean inched forward lowering his blade a little and trying to foster a reassuring tone. “Shh. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

She took three steps forward, and Dean backed away surprised and worried to find himself against a wall. “I know,” the girl said, grinning savagely.

Dean clenched his jaw, he’d underestimated and misjudged. Before he could move the girl swiftly pulled a knife out thrusting it forward. Dean dodged, managing to avoid the brunt of the blow. The knife sliced through his jacket, pinning it to the wooden wall behind him.

“Daddy!” the girl hollered backing away. Immediate footsteps thundered in answer and Dean swore tearing the knife from the wall. The two younger men from the pictures burst through the door lunging at Dean and pushing the girl out of the way. Dean recognized the one as his attacker from the other day and determined the other was probably a brother. The brother was limping, white bandage peeking out from under his jeans. Judging from his motions Dean figured he was the one Sam had injured. Shot in the ass by a crossbow. Well good, he freakin’ deserved it.

Macho Man grabbed Dean roughly throwing him into the wall. Grabbing his opponents seemed to be the man’s favored technique, and Dean winced as his ribs objected to the treatment. He took a swipe at Macho Man growling as the man dodged, working his way behind Dean to grab him under his arms. Dean kicked out as Shot In The Ass tried to move closer, landing a solid hit to the stomach. Macho Man threw him into the wall again; Dean coughed at the impact losing his grip on the knife and hearing it clatter to the floor. Shot In The Ass ran towards him doing little to block Dean as he punched the man in the face knocking him to the floor. Dean spun landing a punch to Macho Man’s jaw before gasping as arms of steel wrapped around his waist dragging him backwards and into the unforgiving wall once more.

Dean struggled to his feet, perversely glad to see the other two men attempting to gather their wits again as well. He snagged his knife from the floor backing away to keep the two men in his sight and pointing at one then the other with the blade. “I’m gonna kick your ass first. Then yours,” he snarled as he spun the knife around and readied his stance, shoving back the aches and exhaustion thrumming though him.

Macho Man made to move forward then stopped; Dean frowned confused then caught the tiny smile on Shot In The Ass’s face and the almost imperceptible flick of his eyes up. Cold certainty flooded over him and Dean felt the sharp pain blossoming from the back of his head before the world was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

Dean groaned, subconsciously twisting his head away to avoid the rough treatment he seemed to be receiving. He winced, blinking his eyes open to find the face of the old man inches from his own. Damn, the old guy’s breath was rank. And the grip he had on Dean’s chin was downright painful, fingers digging in uncomfortably along his jaw, and holy crap was he gonna have bruises.

He snarled, yanking his head sharply to the right. He hissed at the explosion of pain in his neck, bringing attention to the pulsating throb at the base of his skull, but was pleased to see he managed to break free of Papa Psycho’s grip.

The man who chased Dean down the sewer pit the other day grinned and stepped forward running a finger down from Dean’s temple to his jaw, brushing along lightly, just the faintest hint of contact. Dean glowered at him and stiffened, trying to convey his level of hate through gaze alone.

The man sneered back and latched a painful hand in Dean’s hair yanking his head back to the point of agony. Dean couldn’t help the groan the pushed it’s way past his lips and squeezed his eyes shut at the flare of lights in his brain. He was relatively sure his head wasn’t supposed to go half numb like that.

Rough hands were running over his face again; through his hair, along his neck and down his arms. What the Hell were they doing? _Petting_ him? Dean breathed out harshly, trying to quell the rolling of his stomach at the pain in his head and the grubby hands being all grabby. The hand in his hair tightened and the hands dropped lower, running over his ribs and prodding into his stomach. The hands dropped again and yanked on his belt. Dean yelped as the buckle was undone and the button popped open, then the man was plunging his hand into Dean’s pants.

Dean bucked with an angry snarl, trying to kick out with his restrained legs. The other man pulled Dean’s head back further with a harsh tug and the edges of the world went white for a moment, Dean struggling to just suck in a tiny breath with the roaring in his ears. When the white faded and the roaring lessened Dean felt the rough hand spreading his thighs and swallowed convulsively.

“Eh, not too impressive but good condition,” the man said letting go of Dean’s cock and beginning to work his way down Dean’s legs with strong squeezes. Dean scoffed, surprised as he felt a pang of offense at the remark. The guy was molesting him and he was insulted the guy wasn’t impressed? What the Hell. Sam was right. His priorities needed sorted. Actually it was probably the result of his wobbly brain at the moment. Yeah, totally blaming it on the head trauma.

The man stopped groping and prodding, having enough decency or whatever to button Dean’s pants before reaching for his face. Dean flinched back from the fingers that were suddenly prying at his eyelids.

“Whaddya think, Missy?” someone asked. Dean’s eyes watered from being held open, and then the awful little girl was leaning over him lips stretching into a thin feral smile.

“Purty shade of green, just like ya said, Jared,” she drawled running an appreciative finger around Dean’s eye.

The older man nodded, and the fingers left his eyes to pry at his mouth. Dean jumped at his chance, lunging forward and snapping down. He felt a flare of joy as he caught his target and heard a yelp of pain as he clenched his jaw around the fingers. A hard slap on the side of his head had the fingers slipping away as the world tilted and rolled. He groaned, the return of the deafening roar in his ears drowning out whatever the man he bit was griping about. Fingers grabbed tight along his jaw again, thumbs jamming into his cheeks to keep him from biting down as they prodded into his mouth, tasting sour and awful as they slid over his teeth and grazed the back of his throat causing him to choke.

The fingers retracted as Dean gagged, one of the men chuckling at his failed attempt to bite the retreating hand even as he fought to not upchuck all over himself.

“He’s a fighter this one. He’ll be fun to hunt,” Shot In The Ass said grinning gleefully in a way that really turned Dean’s stomach. Papa Psycho laughed as Macho Man glowered at Dean.

He groaned, closing his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. That’s what the pictures are? You yahoos hunt _people_? The world’s gone to literal shit and you’re killing _people_?”

Papa Psycho grinned revealing missing teeth and remaining ones that barely looked like teeth anymore. “You ever killed before?”

Dean shifted and rolled his eyes. “Well, that depends on what you mean,” he replied trying to infuse as much distain as possible into his tone. Killed more Infected than he could remember. Killed a man once too. Would be only oh so happy to kill every one of the people in this room.

Papa Psycho leaned forward, like he was getting ready for story time. “I’ve hunted all my life,” he began and Dean groaned.

“Oh god, is this one of those ‘when I was a kid’ stories because I’m so not interested,” he said. Papa narrowed his eyes and smacked Dean across the face. Not hard enough that it would normally hurt, but with the knock to the head earlier and bruises blossoming along his jaw it was enough to shut him up.

“I’ve hunted all my life,” Papa Psycho repeated, shooting Dean a warning look. “Just like my father, his before him. I’ve hunted deer and bear—I even got a cougar once. And now my children and I can hunt all the Biters we want. But the best hunt is _human_. Oh, there’s nothin’ like it,” Papa breathed, wistful and reminiscent. “Holdin’ their life in your hands. Seein’ the fear in their eyes just before they go dark.” He hummed appreciatively and whispered, “Makes you feel powerful, _alive._ ”

Dean huffed and mustered up a short, pained chuckle. “You’re a sick puppy.”

Papa Psycho inclined his head, as if Dean had a point but he didn’t care, before standing and circling Dean’s chair like an approaching wolf. Dean stiffened, not liking the feeling of being prey.

“We give ‘em a weapon,” Papa said, still circling Dean slowly. “Give ‘em a fightin’ chance. It’s kind of like our tradition passed down, father to son. Of course, before the Outbreak it was only one or two a year. Never enough to bring the law down, we never been that sloppy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty sloppy,” Dean sneered thinking of their hygiene, living conditions, and state of their poor, abused truck.

Papa Psycho continued as if Dean hadn’t spoken. “After the Outbreak though, well now we can hunt as much as we like. Don’t haffta be careful,” he finished leaning down to meet Dean’s defiant gaze. “Now we just take whoever we stumble upon. Whoever comes right to us. Like you and yer brother.”

“Shoulda been a little careful, pal. You took my dad so now I’m gonna kill you,” Dean growled.

Papa Psycho actually smiled at the threat. “We took your daddy did we? Well condolences, but I fail to see how that’s a bad thing. It brought you to us. Is there any more of you?”

Dean stiffened even more but refused to let his defenses falter. “If I tell you, you promise not to make me into an ashtray?” he asked innocently.

That response seemed to make Papa angry and Shot In The Ass punched him in the face before Dean could even attempt to ready himself for it. His vision cleared just in time to see Papa return to the room holding a hot poker. Dean clenched his jaw, tugging once again at his restraints even though he knew it was pointless.

“Only reason I don’t let my boys take you right here and now is because there’s something I need to know.”

“Like how it’s not nice to marry your sister?” Dean snapped.

“I want an answer to my question,” Papa said, tone pitched low and threatening. “We didn’t expect you to come stumbling in after yer old man, nice as it is to see you. Is there anyone who’s gonna come after you? Are you and yer brother part of a larger group?”

Dean kept his face blank though his thoughts were going a mile a minute. If these people thought there would be others after him and Sam it could be beneficial. It may also mean they’d just kill him and Sam quick and dirty. “Oh, eat me,” he said stalling for time to think, “No, no, no, wait, wait, you actually might.”

Macho Man glanced at Papa, receiving some unspoken command, and walked over planting his big paws on either side of Dean’s head. Dean struggled but felt no give.

“You think this is funny? You wanna play games?” Papa said. “We’ll play some games. Looks like there’ll be a hunt today after all, boys. And you, _Dean_ , can pick the animal. You or your brother?”

Dean swallowed hating the sound of his name and wondering how the Hell the guy knew it anyway. “Okay, wait, wait. Look. Nobody’s comin’. No need for hunting or killin’ or—”

“Choose or I will,” Papa said shoving the poker into Dean’s shoulder. Dean screamed feeling for the second time far too soon the experience of burning. The smell of burning clothes and searing hair clogged his nose and he choked as Papa pulled the poker back. Dean groaned leaning his head forward and breathing harshly through his nose.

“You son of a bitch,” he wheezed. Macho Man threaded his hand into Dean’s hair pulling his head back as Papa brought the poker to Dean’s eye hovering barely an inch away. Dean froze.

“Next time, I’ll take an eye,” Papa said.

“Me!” Dean gasped. “Me. Take me!” There had never really been a question, like Hell was he throwing Sammy to the wolves here.

Papa smiled and leaned back. “Lee. Go get the other brat. Take him to the pit.”

Dean stared at him in horror, barely processing. “What? I thought you said you were gonna hunt me? I picked me!”

“Yes, you did. So we do your brother instead,” Papa said, Missy and Macho Man grinning behind him.

Dean shook his head, trying and failing to suck in breaths of air and fight against the tremors racketing his form.

“Don’t worry,” Papa said. “We’ll let you watch.”

Dean looked up at him unable to breathe.

“Jared was right,” Papa mused, trailing his fingers over Dean’s shocked face. “Very beautiful when you’re terrified.”

* * *

Sam straightened as the door creaked open once more already griping at his brother. “Well it sure took you long enough. What’d you do, stop for coffee?” he said before realizing the emerging figure was definitely not Dean.

“Sorry, brat, once again I’m not your brother,” Lee said.

Sam clenched his jaw and glared at the man through the bars of his cage. “What did you do to him?”

Lee ignored him, crouching in front of the cage and sliding the key into the lock. Sam slid back, suddenly very much wanting to remain _in_ the cage. Lee stepped back pulling a handgun from his waistband and pointing it at Sam. “Out,” he ordered shortly.

Sam swallowed and stayed put. “You can’t use that. The noise—” He jumped, heart stopping as Lee pulled the trigger, the too loud gunshot impacting the wall somewhere to his right.

“Noise don’t matter here. Get out. Slowly,” Lee said.

Sam heard a shout from down the hall, muffled by the thick walls but unmistakably his brother. “You hurt my brother and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all. I will kill you all!”

Sam flicked his eyes to Lee unsure but deciding he could get away with yelling a reply. “I’m all right, Dean!” The shouting halted abruptly, Sam hoped by his words and not a fist.

“Last time, out.”

Sam complied, inching out of the cage and standing up fully. Whenever they’d let him out before there had been handcuffs and a knife. The gun was new.

“Now, out the door. Hands up. Nice and slow.”

Sam held his hands up by his head following Lee’s instructions down the hallway. He paused by the doorway down the hall stomach clenching at the sight of Dean beaten and tied to a chair, Jared behind him with his hand fisted in Dean’s hair pulling his head back at an unnatural angle. Fist it was then, apparently. Dean didn’t see him, eyes squeezed shut in pain, and Lee shoved Sam down the hall before he could call out.

Sam sent Lee a withering glare over his shoulder but obeyed. He didn't want to be shot and certainly didn’t want them shooting Dean or something equally as bad. Lee directed him through another door, up a flight of stairs, then through a heavyset iron door. Lee shoved him through making Sam stumble, and then pulled the door closed. Sam straightened, glaring as Lee’s face disappeared from view and trying to not feel unsettled by the sly grin and wink Lee had given him.

As soon as the door clanged shut, the locking mechanism clicking into place, Sam spun around inspecting his surroundings. _John Winchester Rule Number Six: Know your environment._

The room wasn’t actually a room; more like a courtyard. And it was filthy. Turn your stomach and make you wish you were in a dumpster instead filthy. Sam covered his mouth with his hand doing his best to filter out the rank odor without much success. Gritting his teeth he ignored the smell, taking in the room instead. There was a catwalk along the opposite wall, about ten feet up from the floor, far out of his range of reach. Underneath were three heavy doors, chains running up along the wall to the catwalk like a pulley system to haul them open. Sam swallowed. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to know what was behind those doors. Another larger door was on the wall to his left another pulley system of chains running over to the catwalk. The rest of the room was flat walls up to open blue sky.

There were stains and congealed puddles and piles of shredded carcasses around him so he tried to tread carefully as he made his way to the center of the room. He scanned the room for anything to use as a weapon, a desperate sense of inescapable doom growing in him as he found nothing. He jerked around, freezing like a cornered rabbit at the sound of an opening door. But it wasn’t one of the three drop doors.

Dean emerged from the small door at the edge of the catwalk, shoved out with a stumble. His gaze met Sam’s immediately, giving Sam a ridiculous sense of reassurance even though he was trapped ten feet below his brother who was bound, gagged and flanked by people who wanted to kill them. Regardless, it was nice to have Dean within his sights again.

Jack took a step forward, pushing Dean out of the way, and tossed a small, gleaming silver knife down at Sam’s feet. “So here’s how this works. We’re gonna open one of these doors. You survive for two minutes we open that door which leads to outside. You’re free to run as long as you’re able.”

Sam’s breathing sped up and he darted forward to snatch the blade from the floor. It was an entirely inadequate weapon, but any weapon was better than his hands. Dean was still staring at him unwaveringly.

“You ready?” Jack asked.

Sam refused to reply, said nothing and simply focused on Dean. He was pretty sure he was going to be dead in under five minutes, pretty sure he had a good idea what would be coming at him in a few moments from those doors, and pretty sure Dean would be next. He _hated_ the fact that Dean was being made to watch this, wished Dean would look away, hide his face and not watch his little brother be torn to shreds. But that was not in Dean’s genetic make-up. He’d watch every second and blame himself for it.

Sam backed up to the middle of the room, making sure he had space behind him to retreat when the time came because he might be pretty sure he was going to die but like Hell would he go down not swinging.

He met Dean’s gaze again, part of him desperately wanting Dean to break free and come rescue him like Dean had done countless times before. But it was Sam’s turn now. Dean gave him a slow, deliberate nod, and Sam felt a flood of confidence surge through him just as Jared pulled one of the doors up releasing the groaning hoard behind it.


	8. Chapter Eight

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Sam could count the times he’d been more terrified on one hand, and all of them included almost loosing Dean in some way. Now it was his life in direct danger and he was practical enough to admit he was fighting his last battle.

Sam was trained well, and the Infected pouring out at him were slow, damaged. He took out the first five with relative ease but more were emerging and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe he’d last the two minutes. But he refused to give up, and each glance he got of Dean’s scared eyes—because that was what Dean was, _scared—_ spurred him on to survive.

He retreated back, giving ground steadily but methodically. He had to move back to keep the press of Infected manageable but if he moved back too quickly he’d hit the wall before the two minutes were up.

The world narrowed to each second sliding by until Sam was backed against the wall desperately fending of attacks of hungry corpses. Adrenalin pumped through him making everything seem like it was moving at half-speed. Against all odds the loading door to outside began to rise slowly fanning the small spark of hope in Sam’s chest. He pushed the Infected back, making a break for the door glancing at Dean to convey…what?

That he’d come back for Dean? That he’d get Dean out? With a pang Sam realized he hadn’t really thought about it. If he ran, if he got out, the Benders might just kill Dean off, tired of all their hunts getting away. Or they might throw him in the pit with the Infected as well and Dean wasn’t in good shape, that much Sam could tell.

As if reading Sam’s mind, or seeing something in his split second hesitation, Dean pulled a stunt so outrageously stupid only Dean would ever consider it. Dean broke free of Lee’s hold, revealing strength he’d cloaked to lull them into false security, and, gagged with hands bound behind his back, threw himself forward over the guardrail of the catwalk like an absolute moron.

Sam’s heart stopped and he gaped in shock, nearly overlooking an Infected that got too close. He missed Dean’s landing, distracted as he was by staying alive, and when he finally spun around and caught sight of his brother, Dean had somehow managed to knock one Infected near him to the ground and was in the process of snapping it’s neck between his thighs, a stupid move that put the Infected’s mouth far too close to it’s dinner.

“Dean!” Sam yelled fighting towards his brother who was slowly being converged upon. From the corner of his eye he saw the Benders in a flurry of movement on the catwalk but he really didn’t care, figuring none of them would come into the pit. None of them were quite as stupid as Dean.

He seized Dean’s shoulders hauling his brother up to his feet and not missing the grunt of pain as he did so, before slamming his short blade into the forehead of the next Infected almost loosing the knife as the blood slicked the handle and it stuck a little in the brain matter and skull.

Dean nudged him with another grunt, shoving Sam towards the door outside which was slowly being lowered. Sam grabbed Dean’s arm, wincing in sympathy as Dean growled and tensed under his touch but sprinted after him anyway.

Sam shoved Dean forward, mumbling a soft apology as Dean tripped, slamming into the concrete before rolling under the door. Sam threw himself after his brother, tumbling under the door and feeling it thud shut behind him. He let loose a short laugh of relief before attacking the gag around Dean’s head. He pulled it free without much trouble then moved onto the rope bound wrists.

“Hold still,” he ordered. “Don’t want to nick you.” Carefully, minding Dean’s skin and his Infected bloodied knife, he sawed through the rope then helped Dean to his feet.

“You okay?” Dean rasped, gripping Sam’s shirt and running his gaze frantically over Sam’s form.

Sam nodded shoving Dean’s hands off and feeling a tad regretful when Dean stumbled at the sudden lack of contact. “Yeah, yeah. We should go.”

Dean nodded. “Yep. Come on.” He took off down the road Sam following and surpassing quickly. As he noticed the ease of which he overtook his brother, Sam slowed worriedly looking Dean over for signs of an injury he’d missed.

“Dean?”

Dean shook his head, glancing back down the road before gesturing for Sam to keep moving. “Not a sprint, Sammy, it’s a marathon.”

Sam chuckled. “Unless it’s a sprint, then sprint.”

“Getting out of that courtyard was a sprint,” Dean huffed, missing a stride and stumbling a bit. He pushed Sam’s hand away and regained his footing well enough Sam didn’t press. “This is a marathon.”

They were several streets away, weaving sporadically around Infected who seemed a lot more prevalent here, before they heard signs of pursuit and wordlessly increased their speed. Dean cut across a couple more streets then slid to a stop next to a manhole cover. Sam shook his head watching Dean struggle to pull the cover up and over with one hand, his right arm tucked protectively against his torso. “No. No way,” he hissed.

Dean rolled his eyes finally succeeding in pulling the cover off. “Yes way. Worked last time. Gonna work this time. The sewer’s the only place they don’t have friggin’ memorized or something, the freaks.”

Sam huffed but nodded. Dean motioned for him to descend first and Sam scoffed. “Dude, how you gonna close the damn thing with one hand? You go down first,” he snapped which earned him a death glare and scowl but he was right so it didn’t matter.

Dean clenched his jaw, clearly unhappy, but slid into the hole bracing himself as he lowered down. “Use the goddamned ladder this time,” Sam said.

“Shut up.” Dean disappeared slowly down the ladder and Sam waited a few more moments before sliding in himself and hauling the cover back over leaving their path virtually undetectable from above. He hurried down, rung by rung, and grimaced as he stepped on something moving and Dean swore below him and shoved at his foot.

“Sorry,” he whispered dropping into the water next to his older brother. He couldn’t make out Dean’s face, couldn’t see much of anything at all.

“Shut up,” Dean repeated. Sam grabbed his sleeve as he moved away fearful of loosing track of him in the shadows. Dean didn’t shake him off and Sam took that as permission to tighten his hold.

“Where are we going?”

Dean laughed shortly, sounding practically manic. “God only knows.”

* * *

God turned out to be a rather awesome guide. Whether by pure accident, subconscious sense of direction, or divine intervention, Dean managed to pick a manhole that emerged on a street he remembered to be nearby the school he’d unwittingly woken up in days prior.

Sammy has insisted on ascending first. Dean let him go, unhappily so, but Dean wasn’t dumb enough to drag his ass up the ladder and shove away a manhole and consider himself ready to face whatever might be up there. He’d suffered enough abuse for one day.

Sam had cleared the street and Dean miserably hauled his seemingly two-ton body up the ladder ungraciously accepting Sam’s help to his feet at street level. Dean peered around as Sam reset the cover smiling when he recognized the street. Sam asked what he was grinning about wearing bitchface number three, but Dean just shook his head and led the way. Sam stuck to his side like glue and it would have been annoying if Dean hadn’t been so damn grateful to _have_ Sam.

Dean’s body ached, shoulder throbbing from where he’d hit the ground, ankle rejecting the second hard landing he’d inflicted on it in four days, cauterized gash on his arm still smarting, new burn on his collarbone particularly painful, jaw and neck sore, and base of his skull throbbing. He made quite the greeting card picture for sure.

Sam followed him wordlessly; tired or actually taking Dean’s silent order to shut up, he didn’t care. Dean led him to the freezer, ignoring his slight exclamation at the bloodied floor Dean had never bothered to clean. After waking up in the freezer Dean had taken some of the supplies, but he’d left enough behind for him and Sam for a few days though they probably wouldn’t stay that long. Sam shot him a questioning look as Dean ushered him in, leaving the door open somewhat to allow the dim rays of natural light to illuminate the freezer.

Dean made it to the far wall, leaning against it and sliding to the floor. He told himself he wanted to sit down and let his head fall to his knees.

“Dean?”

Dean grit his teeth hating the fact that he wasn’t able to keep himself together for Sam’s sake but now that he’d sat down the pain in his head seemed to be increasing and he was rapidly loosing his ability to give a damn about anything. “I’m fine, Sammy,” he muttered. “There’s some food. And water.” He fluttered his hand in the general direction he remembered leaving the stuff.

Sam ignored him, typical, and kneeled down, hands gently coming to grasp the side of Dean’s head and tilt it up. Dean squinted at him wishing Sam would leave him alone to lick his wounds but knowing Sam better than that.

“Never do that again,” Dean said thickly, chest tightening and hands going clammy at the thought of what could have happened. Huh, actually felt like delayed shock or something. Probably coming down off his adrenaline high.

“Do what?” Sam asked, slowly running his hands along Dean’s scalp and down his neck. Dean winced each time he hit a tender spot, sucking in a small gasp when Sam hit the base of his skull.

“Go missin’ like that,” Dean said ignoring the way his voice sounded strained and hoping Sam would as well. Sam noted it, no way he didn’t, but thankfully refrained from commenting.

“You were worried about me,” Sam teased, calmly twisting Dean’s wrist to measure his pulse for some reason.

Dean scoffed and cleared his throat. “All I’m sayin’ is, you vanish like that again, I’m not lookin’ for ya.”

“Sure you wont,” Sam said, playing along and brow furrowing as he counted.

“I’m not,” Dean insisted, shoving at Sam a little and letting a tiny hint of affection bleed into his tone.

“So, they whack you a good one to the back of the head?” Sam asked despite having to know that was exactly what happened. Dean suspected he was talking to keep Dean talking. Admittedly it was what Dean would do in Sam’s shoes. “You probably have a concussion, pulse seems a little fast.”

“Of course I have a concussion. It’s not fair,” Dean muttered. “Distract me with a little girl then smack me from behind. Terrible sportsmanship. Dirty fighters the bunch of them.”

Sam chuckled again. “Funny. Jared said the same thing about you when you poked him in the eyes. How’s your neck, by the way?”

“Sore. And dude’s lucky I didn’t nail his balls,” Dean said.

“And your arm?” Sam asked softly reaching out tentatively. “Jared said…he said he…”

Dean sighed but obligingly extended his arm for Sam to inspect. Sam attacked his arm, figuratively as the kid couldn’t be more gentle if he tried, making quick work of the letterman coat. Dean sighed again and waited. Sam froze as soon as he’d tugged the sleeve up half way off.

“Dean,” he said pulling the sleeve all the way off and staring at the twisted mess of pink skin that made up Dean’s lower arm. “What happened?”

“Uh, well it got infected again,” Dean said, trying to think quickly about what parts he should edit out. “After I sewer dived. Jared, he uh, he grabbed my arm and mucked up the stitches. So I had to…I cauterized it.”

Sam stared at him, wide eyed. “You _cauterized_ it?” he asked, voice barely audible. “Why the, what the, how could you be so stupid?” He blinked looked at the door then back to Dean. “Is that, that’s what’s out there? That’s where you? Jesus, Dean.”

“It’s fine, Sam.”

“No, no it’s definitely not fine,” Sam said. “You could have killed yourself.”

“Sam,” Dean said leaning his head back against the wall. “I didn’t have much of a choice. And I had…” he stopped wondering if mentioning his weird hallucination of Dad was worth mentioning or not.

“Had what?” Sam asked.

“Had a good idea of what I was doing. Let it go. It’s done and I’m still kicking,” Dean said. Sam shook his head, muttering about idiot brothers under his breath before telling Dean to lie down.

Dean scowled but decided he really did want to lie down actually and so he’d have to comply even though that would make it look like he was following his little brother’s orders. He groaned, sliding the rest of the way to the floor and rolling onto the blankets. Sam chuckled at him, little twerp had no right to be amused since most of his pains had been accumulated in his attempts to rescue the brat.

Then Sam’s laugh cut off. “Dean, your belt.”

Dean squinted at him then looked down. Sure enough his belt was still unbuckled; he was rather surprised it was still there actually. “Huh, it didn’t fall off.”

“Dean,” Sam repeated, voice sounding slightly strangled. “Why is it unbuckled?”

Dean blinked. Because your pals pawed all over me to see how sweet my ass was, Dean answered silently trying to come up with a more innocuous reply. He felt himself flush as Sam stared at him. “Uh…”

Sam furrowed his brows then surged forward. “Oh my god, are those finger bruises?” he asked stopping just short of grabbing Dean’s face. “Dean, did they…did they,” he stumbled over his words gaze flicking down to Dean’s belt again then back to his face. Sam stuttered, his own face draining of color. “Did they… _hurt_ —”

“No!” Dean exclaimed finally getting what Sam was trying to ask. “No, God no,” he said struggling back into a sitting position.

Sam gulped. “They didn’t, they didn’t hurt you? Not like that?”

Dean shook his head. “No. They didn’t touch…they didn’t…not like that,” he said hoping Sam wouldn’t catch his slip.

Of course Sam did catch it though; he rarely missed. “They _did_ touch you?”

“No, I mean yes, but not, damnit Sammy,” Dean said feeling incredibly awkward. Why’d Sam have to go and ask about his stupid belt in the first place? “It was just…”

“Just what?” Sam demanded. He’d grabbed ahold of Dean’s arm, his grip almost painfully tight as he peered anxiously at Dean.

“Jesus. They hunt people, Sam. They were…checking out their catch,” he said haltingly, not liking the way the words felt on his tongue and feeling oddly exposed.

“Checking out their catch?” Sam repeated. “What about your face? It looks like they held you while…” he trailed off.

Dean scoffed and lay down again now that the crisis had been averted. “I bit his hand when he tried to look at my teeth. He wasn’t very happy.”

Sam laughed and Dean didn’t miss the slight hysterical note to it. “You hungry?”

Eyes closed and already feeling sleep calling, Dean shook his head slightly and hoped Sam wouldn’t push the issue. “Not really.”

“Me either,” Sam answered.

Dean’s eyes snapped open again, forcing himself back to a sitting position again and grabbing on to Sam’s arm as he went to move away, panic rising in him.

“Dean? What? What’s wrong?”

“Did they? They didn’t touch you, right?” Dean asked urgently. “They didn’t hurt you?”

Sam shook his head. “No, no, Dean. They barely touched me at all. Promise. If they ‘checked out their catch’ with me they did it while I was unconscious. Which is a weird thought, but I’m fine Dean, seriously,” Sam finished softly, coaxing Dean to lie down again. Dean let out a deep breath of relief and forced his fingers to release Sam’s clothes.

Dean was half asleep as he listened to Sam close the door and stumble back across the room in the complete darkness. He was half asleep as he felt Sam rearranging the blankets so he was a little more comfortable and covered. He was half asleep as Sam curled up next to him, being mindful of his burned shoulder, and laid a hand against his ribs. Dean was half asleep and that was why he didn't push Sam away and instead moved closer. Or at least that’s what he’d tell Sam if asked.

* * *

Sam woke feeling more rested than he had in ages, face pressed into something warm and moving. He shifted, nuzzling deeper into the crook of Dean’s neck, inhaling the distinct smell of his brother nearly masked by the stench of sweat, sewer water, and a hint of burned skin and clothes.

Holding still and keeping his breathing even, Sam hoped Dean would sleep longer. He wondered how long he had been asleep knowing it couldn’t have been all that long. It had been years since Sam slept more than five consecutive hours at a time and a mostly dark freezer wasn’t going to change that. Of course, since they’d gone to sleep relatively early, it was probably still dark outside.

Dean shifted beneath him and Sam tensed. The moment he woke up Dean would no doubt shove Sam away and resume the ridiculous role of invincible elder brother. Like Sam was unaware of the fact Dean could hurt. He wasn’t eleven anymore, he knew Dean hurt and got tired, knew he was human, but Dean insisted on pretending he was invulnerable.

After a moment, with Dean settling down and remaining asleep, Sam levered himself up on his elbows wishing he could make out more of Dean’s features in the dark. Dean was hurt more than he was letting on, Sam was positive because it was just like Dean to hide the severity of his injuries unless it threatened Sam or Dad’s lives. Sam hoped Dean hadn’t been lying when he’d answered Sam’s question on whether or not Jared had made good on his threat. Even just the thought of Jared’s hands on Dean made his blood boil and thirst for vengeance. Sam was practical though. The smartest thing he and Dean could do now was run far and run quick, get the Hell out of dodge and leave the Benders to their own.

Sam reached out tentatively, laying his palm on Dean’s chest over his heart finding the feeling of Dean’s heartbeat comforting. It was still dark no doubt and he didn’t want to wake Dean unless absolutely necessary. He eased back down, lying on his side to keep his hand on Dean’s heart and after awhile felt himself drift back off to sleep.

When he woke again his hand was cool against the blankets. He started; fear rippling through him before he realized Dean had just rolled away, somehow maneuvering himself onto his preferred sleeping position on his stomach. Sam winced wondering how that felt with all the bruises before deciding that if it hurt too bad Dean would wake up himself. Although with the concussion it was probably long past due the time Sam should check.

With a modicum of regret Sam leaned over, gently shaking Dean’s shoulder and calling his name. Dean grunted, mumbled a nearly inaudible response that approximated an order for Sam to go fuck himself, and proceeded to bury his face deeper into the musty blankets. Sam wrinkled his nose, wondering how Dean could sleep through the smell and decided the gruff response was enough of a sign of Dean’s lucidity.

Sam rolled to his feet, walking quietly to the freezer door and easing it open. Soft light washed in and Sam glanced back, watching Dean stir but ultimately remain asleep on the mound of blankets. Sam closed the door behind him, knife tucked in his hand as he surveyed the kitchen.

He clenched his jaw at the mess of blood and dirt in front of the one stove, towels, pots, and pans thrown haphazardly around the room. Dean obviously hadn’t a clear idea of what he was looking for when he’d been searching. Sam swallowed heavily as he picked up a wide kitchen knife from a cracked puddle of dried blood. He regarded it intently for a moment before tossing it away, wincing a little at the clang but wishing he’d never have to look at it again.

He left the kitchen, moving through the hallways with cautious movements, methodically opening and searching the lockers. None of his or Dean’s bags had been in the freezer; Sam didn’t know where they were but he wasn’t running around in sewer filth clothes until Dean finally decided to share the secret of where their supplies were.

Most of the lockers yielded nothing helpful but Sam eventually located a pair of jeans that would most likely fit him and a pair of boots for Dean along with a heavy jacket that Sam couldn’t leave behind. Jackets were always a good thing to have, especially ones meant for colder weather. Sam searched the boys’ locker room thoroughly—finding where Dean had gotten his t-shirt and letterman coat, and grabbing two more of each for them—before admitting overall defeat and moving to the girls’ locker room. He gave a cursory glance through the lockers finding the same amount of t-shirts and shorts that he’d found in the boys’ before moving to the teacher’s office and pawing through the lost and found box. He found a surprising large pair of sneakers that would work for him—he was only mildly upset at the pink along the sides—and a baggy pair of jeans that were a definite maybe for Dean so long as Sam neglected to mention where he found them.

Dean was still asleep when Sam crept back in so Sam simply settled down with his back against the wall, watching Dean fondly. It was something amazing about the apocalypse. In the days before the world as they knew it ended Sam couldn’t have imagined sitting passively in a room for more than a few minutes before going stir crazy and getting restless. Now though, now he could sit quietly for hours on end with nothing more to occupy him than his own mind.

Minutes or hours later, Sam couldn’t tell, Dean stirred groggily, blinking back to the world of the waking slowly enough that Sam crept forward concern once again rising. Dean was bound to be stiff, being the mess of black and blue that he was; Hell Sam was feeling the other day’s leftover hurts himself.

“How you feeling, Dean?” he asked pitching his voice low to not aggravate the headache Dean was sure to be nursing.

“Friggin’ fantastic,” Dean muttered, working his way up to a sitting position and gingerly rolling his shoulders.

Sam grimaced in sympathy wishing they had the painkillers they’d scored their first day. “Here,” he said offering Dean one of the bottles of water instead. Dean nodded gratefully and took a few sips. “I got you some jeans and a pair of boots too.”

Dean frowned at him plucking at the boots. “Where’d you find this stuff?”

“Just around,” Sam answered vaguely. “Went through lockers.”

Dean clenched his jaw, anger flashing across his features and he set the bottle down heavily glaring. “Why the Hell did you do that? I just got you back and you go off gallivanting around while I’m sleeping?” he demanded.

Sam sat back surprised at the vehemence in Dean’s tone. He opened his mouth to defend himself but Dean soldiered on speaking over him. “Goddamnit, Sam! What the fuck were you thinking? You were supposed to stay here! I told you to stay here!”

“You never said that,” Sam protested, hackles rising at Dean’s reprimands making him feel all of two inches tall and like he was being yelled at by Dad, a feeling Dean had never inspired in him before.

“Well it was implied! How stupid do you gotta be—”

“I’m not stupid,” Sam snapped standing so he towered over Dean still sitting on the floor, and wow, they managed to set a new record for arguing just a few measly hours, except for sleeping, after reuniting. “I just went to look for some supplies since you’ve apparently managed to lose all of ours!”

Dean glared up at him, jaw set. “So you waltz around an abandoned school in a city full of infected with four pissed off psychopaths out for our blood? Brilliant idea, genius,” he retorted.

“I’m not stupid,” Sam repeated, scowling because Dean never trusted him. “I was careful and never even left the building. And I can take care of myself, you know. I don’t need a shadow all the time.”

“I _know_ you can take care of yourself,” Dean said struggling to his feet and rising with his voice. “This isn’t about you, asshole. They got you last time and they could’ve got you again and I, I don’t know, they might not…fuck,” Dean swore stumbling and clutching at his head.

Sam jumped forward, anger smothered under concern. “Whoa, Dean, whoa. Take it easy, man.” Sam grabbed Dean’s elbows to steady his brother.

Dean swayed, squinting at Sam. “I’m serious,” he said, voice no more than a hoarse whisper and breaths harsh. “Don’t do that, don’t run off when I’m not there to, to watch your back.”

“I won’t,” Sam said. “I won’t, I’m sorry.” Dean crumpled against him, suddenly leaving Sam juggling a hundred thirty pounds of boneless big brother. He wrapped Dean more securely in his arms, squaring his feet to maintain his balance. Gripping Dean’s waist with one arm he tapped Dean’s shoulder reluctant to jostle Dean’s most likely fragile head from where it was pressed against Sam’s neck. “Dean? Dean?”

Dean groaned, fingers digging into Sam’s shirt and skin beneath almost painfully. “Okay, okay. Let's get you horizontal again,” Sam soothed frowning as he contemplated the easiest way to get Dean down. “Need you to bend your legs, Dean. Come on, nice and slow now.”

Moving gradually Sam managed to get Dean back down on the blankets. Dean’s eyes were still screwed shut, face pinched in pain and he was taking quick shallow breaths. Dean curled in on himself and grabbed Sam’s wrist as he went to move away. Sam grimaced, Dean’s grip almost painfully tight and shifted his position to sit against the wall. He wiggled his hand, getting Dean to loosen his hold enough to pull his wrist free and instead clasp Dean’s hand in his own.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Dean mumbled, not opening his eyes and sounding nine kinds of defeated.

“I won’t. Promise. You sleep more,” Sam whispered, squeezing Dean’s hand reassuringly. “I’ll be right here.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

“So what’s the plan? Are we getting outta dodge?” Sam asked.

“No,” Dean said. He shoved the last few items in a tattered book bag, found in one of the lockers and a rather unfortunate bright shade of pink. But it was a bag and theirs were still MIA so there were no complaints.

“No? What the hell not?”

“Because. That’s why. Here’s what were gonna do, Sammy,” Dean said with a grunt as he went to haul the bag across his shoulders and poorly hiding a wince.

Sam huffed and pulled the bag from Dean’s hands ignoring the glare and muttered with no malice, “Can’t have you carrying the pink bag. Might be to big a blow to your manliness.”

Dean scoffed and reached up to ruffle Sam’s hair. “Such a girl, Sammy. The color suits you. Anyway,” he continued, palming his knife and leading the way from the freezer, “the plan is to find our real bags, not that pink shit, relocate everything to the Impala, I go back to the fucking inbreds, take care of business, _then_ we get the hell outta dodge.”

Sam slid to a halt. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t just sworn you said we were going back to the Benders.”

Dean glanced over his shoulder raising an unconcerned eyebrow without slowing his steps. “No, just me. Keep up, kiddo.”

“Are you insane?” Sam hissed, taking a couple long strides to bring him up beside his brother again. “You want to go back? Why?”

The sidelong glance he got in response was familiar. Dean was hiding something and weighing the consequences of sharing. Something that made him want to go back to the psychos that tried to kill them. Something that made him throw away every rule Dad had ever taught them about dealing with living people post-apocalypse. Sam grabbed Dean’s bicep pulling to a stop. “No,” he shook his head. “Not happening, Dean, no.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean said pulling his arm away and sounding exasperated. “Look, there’s just something I have to take care of there. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? Well you have a concussion, a sprained ankle, and a messed up arm that says otherwise, Dean. What’s so important that you have to go back for?”

Sam watched a variety of expressions flit across his brother’s face and it twisted his stomach that there was something Dean felt he couldn’t tell him. Dean looked away, rubbing a hand over his face. “Dean,” Sam implored, putting as much desperation in his tone as he could.

“There might be others.”

“What?” Sam asked. He furrowed his brows. “Other what?”

“People, Sam. There might be other people there.”

Although the reason still seemed like it was coming out of left field, Sam felt a little better, a little less tense, at the whole situation now that Dean had shared. Sam wasn’t sure that was the whole story, but it was enough. “Okay. So I’ll come with you.”

Dean shook his head vigorously. “No. Like hell am I letting you near them again.”

“That goes both ways, Dean. You’re not going there alone.”

Dean sighed running his hands through his hair and pulling at the strands in frustration. “Fine. Look can we not discuss this now?”

“You’re not going alone,” Sam repeated. Dean rolled his eyes and started walking again. Sam watched him for a few moments, cataloging the deliberate steps and the slumped shoulders, before trailing after. Not for the first time, Sam desperately wanted to hear his dad’s heavy footsteps in tandem with theirs, to hear the gruff rumbles of reassurance in the dark of night, and to not feel like the one person he had left was in danger of being snatched away.

* * *

It took a bit of circling around but Dean eventually managed to find the building he’d stashed their bags in. Sam was pouting, shooting beseeching looks at him the whole way. Part of Dean wanted to sooth, to reassure, to make that damned look of fear go away, but the other part of him was too drained, too wrapped up in his own thrumming despair, to put forth the necessary effort. And damn if that didn’t make him a horrible big brother.

Lying to Sam was a bad idea. You didn’t live in somebody’s pocket for four years and not learn their tells when they’re lying, but so far Sam seemed to be buying it. It helped that Dean was actually slightly concerned about the possibility of other people being trapped there. Not concerned enough for that to be his only reason for going back, though.

What was really twisting his stomach in knot upon knot as they trekked all over the goddamn city was the knife and the lack of picture. He wanted to hope, fuck did he want to hope, that it meant Dad was still alive. But he wasn’t an idiot. It was quite possible that Dad was dead. Torn to shreds or hunted down by those bastards, and Dean wanted to keep the possibility from Sam as long as he could.

His shoulder ached something awful as they made their way back to the car. He wasn’t sure how smart it was to return to the Impala, particularly after all but telling the Benders it was theirs, but he couldn’t make himself leave her behind. With Sam’s help he managed to get her tires changed out for new ones, at least ones that would hold air, and Dean thanked God none of her rims were bent. The Benders had, unsurprisingly, syphoned the gas out of her tank, and it took a little silent forceful convincing but Dean got Sam to help him push Baby a few blocks and into a store’s loading dock where they would hopefully be able to go to ground for the next few days.

Dean was sweating and feeling a little lightheaded by the time he pulled the garage door shut, leaning against it wearily. He flinched as a hand landed on forehead suddenly trying to summon up the energy to shove Sam away.

“Jesus, Dean. Why are you such an idiot? Come on.”

Normally averse to following Sammy’s orders, Dean figured compliance would be less suspicious than if he spontaneously decided kiss the concrete. He let Sam lead him back over to the car and get him settled inside before handing him a bottle of water and some painkillers.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he said, doing his best to muster a small smile even if his insides felt like there were trying crawl their way out his throat. Given Sam’s huff and eye roll, Dean counted it as a success.

“Want some food, jerk?”

Dean shook his head. His stomach was empty, he should probably eat, but the mere thought of slimy fruit or congealed soup had him swallowing thickly and contemplating a run to the corner of the garage. With shaking hands Dean tucked the water bottle in the pocket on the back of the seat and curled up on the backseat pillowing his head one of their duffels.

“Dean, you should eat.”

Dean closed his eyes and carefully rolled over, tucking his face against the leather and breathing in the familiar scent. Effectively blocking Sam out, he pretended not to hear Sam’s sigh and did his best to no react when Sam returned after a few moments to spread a blanket over him.

It was wrong. The roles were backward, Dean really needed to get up and make sure Sam ate something, make sure Sam was doing okay, just _make sure._ It was wrong. And Dean couldn’t bring himself to give one shit. He curled in on himself tighter, willing the tremors racking his body to stop and wished for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Dean jerked awake some time later, eyes scratchy and mouth foul tasting. He sat up quickly looking around to see what might have awakened him. Sam was stretched across the front bench seat, knees bent awkwardly so his long frame fit, still fast asleep. Dean smiled fondly, hoping the kid had eaten something before he’d gone to sleep. Rubbing his eyes Dean twisted to peer out the Impala’s windows, trying to see anything beyond the shadows. Against his better judgment Dean reached out to flick the small lantern on hoping the sudden flare of light didn’t wake his brother.

Still seeing nothing, not that anything could have gotten in the garage anyway, Dean snagged the water bottle and set about draining it to quench his thirst. The water tasted like shit, plastic as hell, but it felt good sliding down his parched throat.

A scuff outside the car made him pause, lowering the bottle from his mouth slowly. He sat perfectly still, ears pricked for any noise beyond his own shallow breaths and Sam’s steady ones.

Definitely shuffling feet outside. Dean reached to shut off the light but paused with his fingers on the switch, staring at the window in trepidation.

An Infected. In the garage. How the fuck? The garage was secure. He’d checked. Hadn’t he? He’d checked.

Turn off the light or leave it on? What would draw more attention?

Dean pulled his knife free easing toward the door. “Sam,” he hissed. “Wake up.”

The scuffing was closer now. Dean could see the vague outline of a large figure. A man, probably.

“Sammy. Sammy, wake up.”

Right next to the door now. Still obscured by the shadows.

“Sammy, wake the fuck up. _Sam_ ,” he said turning to look at his brother who was still somehow slumbering on obliviously.

The door handle clicked. Dean froze as the car door pulled open a few inches then fell shut. “No way,” he breathed.

Dean leaned over the seat shaking Sam harshly. “Sammy,” he said urgently. The door clicked again and a strong hand clamped around his ankle. Dean kicked out, twisting in the grip and trying to knock the hand loose. The Infected moaned, clenched harder, and _pulled_. Dean slid down the seat fighting panic and trying to find his knife that he must have dropped at some point. Fucking amateur.

“Sam!” he shouted, flailing for anything to hold on too. “Sammy!” His hand connected with the lantern knocking it to the floor and sending shadows rushing away in every direction. Dean twisted again, facing the Infected, and froze before he landed the kick he was intending.

“Dad?” Dean choked, breath stuttering and falling short. “Oh my God, Dad?”

Dad snarled, mouth opening wide and teeth exposed along the left side of his jaw. Blood coated the side of his face and his sightless eyes focused on Dean unerringly. Hands groped at him, scrabbling at his jeans to drag him from the car.

Instinct came rushing back and Dean struggled, kicking out viciously. It was an overpowering fear that had him almost hyperventilating and close to tears. Dad’s hands, no _the hands_ , were insistent, quickly gaining purchase again whenever Dean managed to knock the loose and steadily dragging him closer to edge of the seat.

“Sam!” he called desperately digging his hands into the leather and cursing as his sweaty hands lost their grip all too easily. “Sam!”

One last pull had him sliding free of the car and landing hard on concrete. Immediately Da— _the Infected_ —fell upon him, fetid breath puffing over his face and Dean _screamed_.

“Sam! Sammy! Sammy!”

He kicked and punched and shoved. Dad clawed and snarled, teeth clacking together with each harsh breath, a rotting stench of decay saturating the air. Dean twisted his head to the side, digging his fingers into Dad’s face to push the head away. He was sobbing hysterically now, sucking in harsh breaths, flailing to get free.

“Sammy! Please, Sam!”

Dad surged forward, teeth snapping centimeters from Dean’s neck, close enough for Dean to feel the moist heat and the saliva dripping from Dad’s teeth. He cried out again shoving frantically at his dad’s chest.

“No!” he shouted. “Dad! No! Please! Dad! Please! Don’t! Sam! Please!”

His hands slipped in congealed blood, sliding off to the side and Dad fell in close again. Dad’s jaw opened wide, tongue flicking uselessly, breath rank and rotting, and teeth latching on to Dean’s neck in a painful rush. Dean screamed, his blood bubbling up around the bite and flooding down, hot and sticky, to the hollow of his throat. Dad clamped down and tore at Dean’s neck like a dog chewing at a bone. Dean weakly shoved at Dad’s shoulders, still trying to yell even as blood oozed down his throat making it difficult to breathe let alone call for Sam.

“Sammy,” he whispered, clenching his hands in Dad’s coat and squeezing his eyes shut. Dad pulled free with a sharp burst of pain and was back in seconds tearing at a new section of his neck. He screamed again, near silent and pain filled, and screamed until he couldn’t anymore.

* * *

Dean jerked awake, eyes scratchy and mouth foul tasting. He sat up quickly hands flying to his throat and breath catching. The sob escaped before he could stop it, and Dean smashed a hand over his mouth doing his best to muffle the sound. He was startled to feel a cool wetness on his cheeks. Glancing fearfully at the front seat where Sam slumbered Dean wiped at his face trying to rub away the tears that kept coming. The pressure increased on his chest, aching to the point where he could barely draw a breath.

Dean scrambled across the seat, trembling hand on the door handle before he froze peering fearfully into the darkness beyond the glass. Shaking, he pounded at the lock making sure it was down tight then repeated the process for the other three doors. Falling back against the seat Dean clenched his knife in his palm and pressed the hilt against his forehead.

One. Breath in, breathe out.

Two. In. Out.

Three. In.

“Dean?” Sam sounded sleepy. Rusty, Dad would say. Dean had been flailing around the car for the past five minutes and Sam didn’t wake up until now? Fuck.

Out.

“It’s fine, Sam. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

That had sounded steady, right? He was fine. Everything was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

Four. In. Out.

“Dean? You okay?” Worried now. Definitely worried. Fuckity fuck.

Five. In. Out.

“I’m fine, Sammy. Just…just a nightmare. Go back to sleep, bitch.”

Six. In. Out.

“If you say so,” Sam muttered, rolling back up under his blanket.

Dean’s breath hitched and he squeezed harder at the knife hilt relishing the slight bite of pain on his palm. His rhythm lost, the next few breaths practically hurt, inhales too short and exhales stinging as sharp as a thousand needles stabbing his lungs.

One. In. Hold. Holding. Out, now, let it out. Out.

Two. In. In. Hold. In. Out. Out.

Fuck.

Three. In. In. No, that’s not right. It’s out now. Let it out, Dean. Out.

Four. In. Now, out, son. Easy does it. In. Out, son. In. Out.

Dean listed to the side, doing nothing to slow his fall. He kept hold of his blade as he curled into the tightest ball he could manage hoping to muffle his jagged breaths.

Four? No, Six? Fuck it. In. Don’t hold. In. Let it out. Out. Out.

His throat was sore, air scraping against it harshly as it tried to fill too small lungs. Black spots danced across his vision, aching eyes falling shut. Seven. In.

Christ. It hurt. Fuck did it hurt. He was dying. Actually dying.

Panicked he checked his throat again, but it was just as unmarred as earlier and slick with sweat under his clammy fingers. His heart hammered in his chest, doing it’s best to pump free like the Grinch’s in that crazy movie. Only he wasn’t a cartoon so his ribs would expand, they’d break. Splinter out bloody and kill him in the back seat while Sam slept on oblivious.

Nine. Fuck. He was supposed to be on nine, but his lungs wouldn’t cooperate. Wouldn’t draw in the stale air. Nine. Nine.

Nine.

* * *

Dean blinked awake slowly, eyes scratchy and puffy feeling. His head was pounding relentlessly and it took a moment before he remembered where he was. Soft light filtered in through the high windows and Dean blinked at the leather upholstery, the events of last night clamoring to the forefront of his memory. Shit. He must’ve passed out.

He groaned as he tried to move, tense muscles unlocking and stretching with a great amount of protest. Pushing the blanket he couldn’t remember pulling over himself away, he hauled himself up slowly and peeked over the back of the seat. No Sam. He pulled the lock up on the door and yanked on the handle. The click of the door opening made him flinch, but he pushed it away and clung to the door to stand when his shaky legs refused to support his weight at first.

Still no Sam. Dean scanned the garage, swallowing thickly. “Sam?” A short breath, aching lungs catching uncomfortably. Dean gave the garage one more sweep, heart hammering at the lack of answer. “Sammy? Sammy!”

* * *

Sam woke with the first rays of light that streamed through the high windows. Sam stretched his legs with a low groan; he really was too tall to sleep in the car anymore. His spine popped as he sat up and twisted to peer into the back seat. Dean was curled against the door, practically on top of the duffle and his blade clutched in a hand resting next to a face tense even in sleep.

Sam frowned and shook his head. Leaning over the seat he retrieved the blanket from where it had been kicked at some point and gently spread it over Dean again. “What is going on in that head of yours?” he asked softly. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

Shaking his head, he quietly made his way out of the Impala stretching fully once he could. His stomach growled and Sam grimaced digging in their food duffle and popping open the first can he pulled out. More peaches.

He lapped the car a few times to get full feeling back to all his extremities and drained his can of peaches. Dean was still sleeping when Sam peeked back in, and he was torn between being thankful and worried. He was glad Dean was sleeping but it was uncharacteristic.

Climbing the ladder by the door he scanned the street outside pleased to see only one Infected stumbling around and no sign of the Benders. He jumped off the ladder pacing around for a bit. Restless, he chewed on his nails occasionally glancing at the car.

He couldn’t let Dean go back. And certainly not alone.

What was Dean thinking? What was Sam supposed to do if Dean left and didn’t come back? He couldn’t loose Dean. He couldn’t. Sam refused.

He wouldn’t loose Dean like Dad.

Okay, he needed something to occupy him. Thoughts straying to something he refused to think about.

Checking on Dean once more—still sleeping—he began a circuit of the garage. In depth and thorough. He picked through everything, piling anything that might be of use in the middle of the garage next to their bags.

Eventually he worked his way around the entire garage. Twice. He glanced in on Dean every once and a while growing steadily more worried but still reluctant to wake Dean. Sam had no idea how much Dean had been sleeping before he rescued Sam’s ass, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t much. At all.

There was a storage closet in the one corner of the garage and a door that probably led to the main store area. Mindful of Dean’s reaction the last time Sam wandered off while Dean was sleeping Sam opted for the closet. Since Dean had cleared the garage and closet before moving the car in yesterday Sam figured he was safe checking out the closet in more detail.

The storage room was actually bigger than Sam expected and supremely dusty. Sam sneezed, scrubbing a hand over his nose and sniffling. Was probably nothing but dust in here, but searching through four years worth of the crap was better than going crazy waiting for Dean to wake up.

Sam was right. There wasn’t much more in the room but dust and boxes of useless crap, though one box was full of books. Sam still went through pretty much every one of them. He was nearing the back of the closet, clinging to a shelf trying to get a box down, when he thought he heard something. He paused, sneezing again at the puff of dust exploding around the box he’d just shifted, and listened. It was Dean. Had to be.

He jumped off the shelf doing his best to brush the dust from his clothes. “In—” he sneezed again, mentally swearing and slightly regretting his decision to come in the damned closet at all.

“Sammy? Sammy!”

The panic saturating the tone spurred Sam into action; he shouldn't have left Dean sleeping in the car. Obviously something had managed to go wrong with Sam less than forty feet away.

“Dean?” He almost tripped over his own feet as he rounded the doorframe. He caught Dean’s eyes, unnerved at the raw panic he saw there. Dean was clinging to the Impala’s door looking pale and shaky. He dropped his head to the door as Sam rushed to him, hands floating over Dean’s shoulder uncertain if his touch and help would be welcome.

“Dean?” Sam repeated.

Dean rolled his head to the side, peering up at Sam through slitted eyes. “I’m fine. You just wandered off again.”

“Sorry. I didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Dean repeated.

“Yeah. Okay. You look like death warmed over. Dad would kick your ass if he were here,” Sam said, still feeling a tad guilty.

Dean blanched at his words, breathing out shakily and gripping the door so hard his knuckles turned white.

“That’s it. Back in the car with you,” Sam said, swallowing down his own unease and prodding his stubborn brother in the side.

“Sam,” Dean said, and Sam was pleased to hear a bit of the brother he knew in the warning tone but was still not dissuaded in the least.

“Dean. Seriously. Lay down before you fall down.”

Dean grumbled again but crawled in the car and flopped down on the back seat. Sam dug through the food duffle before pulling out a can of beans and a can of tuna. Knocking the beans against the car he offered Dean a small smile.

“What first? Beans or tuna?”

Dean groaned, hiding his face. “Not hungry, Sammy.”

“You have to eat, Dean. Please.”

A sigh. “Tuna.”

Sam grinned in relief and handed the can over. “Beans later then.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean growled shifting to a sitting position and pulling the tuna open. He accepted the fork Sam handed him with only a mild glare and started picking at the fish. Sam grabbed a few bottles of water and another can of fruit for himself before crawling in the back with Dean. After some finagling he managed to slide the front bench seat forward, giving him more room to settle on the floor with Dean still stretched on the seat.

Dean picked at the tuna moodily and steadily worked his way through enough water that Sam was satisfied. He didn’t think Dean would tolerate much more of his pushing either. Thankfully, once Dean finished his tuna he fell back asleep on his own with no prompting. Watching Dean sleep should have made Sam feel uncomfortable or antsy at least, but it was just calming to count Dean’s breaths and breathe in the smell of the Impala.

Sam finished his fruit, water, took a trip to quickly relieve himself and grab a book from the box he’d found earlier, and stretched again before crawling back in car. Dean didn’t sleep long, jerking awake with a startled cry only an hour or so after falling asleep. Sam grit his teeth but pretended not to notice, staring resolutely at page sixty-seven of _To Kill A Mocking Bird_. Dean shifted around breathing in a steady in and out rhythm. After a few moments without it seeming to help, Sam turned the page and began reading out loud, pitching his voice low and soothing. Dean quieted and Sam continued reading reassured by Dean’s steady gaze until he once again fell asleep. Sam kept on reading out loud comforted himself by it and hoping it would serve to help ease Dean’s sleep.

Whether the sound of Sam’s voice helped or not Dean slept longer the second time, waking sometime in the late afternoon if Sam was an accurate judge, which, if you asked Dean, was totally debatable. Dean ate the beans with no complaint and drained another bottle before stumbling out of the car for a few minutes. When he lay back down and stared at Sam expectantly, Sam obligingly picked back up reading hiding his grin behind the book.

Dean listened passively for a while, staring at the car ceiling and letting the words wash over him. Sam wasn’t even sure Dean was hearing anything he was saying, but he didn’t expect Dean to have much interest in the novel.

When he reached the end of a chapter he fell silent, earmarking the page and setting the book aside. Silence reigned for a long moment, Dean not even seeming to realize Sam stopped speaking.

“What a dick.”

Sam laughed. Listening after all. “Who?”

Dean turned his head toward Sam, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Bob. Who else? I mean I guess Dubose too, but really she had an excuse. Bob’s just a dick.”

“You ever read this before?” Sam asked softly.

Dean sighed. “Yeah. Parts of it anyway. For school.”

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam licked his lips, gathering his courage. “What’re you dreamin’ about?”

Dean closed his eyes, raising a hand to his head. “Don’t, Sam. Just don’t.”

“Is it about Dad?”

Dean jerked and Sam felt guilty for asking, for bringing it up. But Dean always got him to talk about his nightmares after the dead first started walking again and it had always helped even if it scared him to talk about it at first. Sam reached out, laying a reassuring hand on Dean’s arm and a little hurt when Dean pulled away almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get out of the car.

Sam followed him out, disturbed to see Dean apparently gathering their supplies together as if to leave. “You can’t go back. Not alone.” Dean ignored him, continuing to pack. “Dean. You can’t leave me alone. Not now.”

Dean froze, not turning to face Sam and speaking lowly. “I’d never leave you, Sammy, you know that.”

Sam nodded even though Dean wasn’t looking. “Not on purpose. But neither would Dad.”

Dean stood and finally faced Sam, cocking his head to the side and raking his gaze over Sam in a way that was entirely uncomfortable but also entirely Dean. Looking for problems, searching Sam’s face for any sign of what he was feeling, cataloging the finds. Sam was an open book to Dean most of the time.

“I have to go back,” Dean said at length, still giving Sam that calculating stare.

Sam nodded again. “Then I’m going with you.”

Dean nodded as well pursing his lips together. “Okay, Sammy, okay.”

“And not today. We wait a few more days.”

“Fine,” Dean said tossing the bag he’d been holding back to the floor.

“Okay,” Sam said blowing out a breath. It felt strange to have Dean agreeing to his calls. And Dean was still staring at him. “What?”

“We’re gonna find him, Sam.”

No need to ask who ‘him’ was. Sam met Dean’s gaze surprised by the conviction he found there. “What if we don’t? What if he’s…” Sam trailed off unable to finish the thought.

“We’re gonna find him, Sammy. We will,” Dean repeated. And Sam wanted nothing more than to believe him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**On The Edge Of Tomorrow**

Dean swirled his hand motioning for Sam to cover him as he pulled open the door. Sam nodded his affirmative taking a ready stance with his crossbow behind his brother as Dean inched forward. Dean pulled the heavy steel door open quickly raising his .45 and moving into the dark room on near silent feet.

Gone was the unsteadiness of the past few days. Gone was the weary expression and slumped shoulders. Replacing that was a Dean who was deadly and predatory in a way Sam was only familiar with when hunting Infected.

Dean stalked through rooms swiftly but thoroughly, glancing back every so often to catch Sam’s gaze and gesture orders. Sam followed without complaint; Dean hadn’t wanted him here at all and Sam would be damned if he was going to screw this up by not listening. Now wasn’t the time to argue for equality in the decision making.

They moved through several rooms before emerging into a hallway Sam recognized. Dean brought his fist up signaling a halt and waved Sam back. Sam pressed himself against the wall a few feet away from his brother and held his breath. Dean tucked his handgun in his waistband drawing out his bowie instead.

Sam narrowed his eyes in confusion trying to catch Dean’s attention, but Dean ignored him attention focused on the bend in the hallway. The sound of footsteps echoed around them, and Sam pushed himself closer to the wall drawing up his crossbow they'd retrieved from the storage room. With Dean on point in such close quarters actual use of the bow was decidedly risky, but it made Sam feel better anyway and he was relieved to have it back.

Dean inched closer to the corner, hunching down a little and readying his blade. When the Bender rounded the corner, Dean reacted before Sam could blink. Lunging forward Dean slammed the knife home in Lee’s throat wrapping an arm around Lee’s head to muffle any sounds the dying man might make. Sam stared in horror at the blood spilling over Dean’s hand raising his gaze in disbelief. Dean was staring impassively down at Lee as the man kicked through death throes, his jaw clenched as tight as the hand blossoming bruises on Lee’s.

As Lee fell still, Dean lowered him slowly to the floor and pulled his blade free. Finally looking at Sam he gave a short nod and took up position to move forward again. Sam swallowed heavily stepping over the spreading pool of blood, breathing lightly through his mouth. Dean led him down the hallway passing the room Sam had been held in and ducking into the next, the room Sam remembered seeing Dean tied to the chair in.

Dean put a finger to his lips and pointed to the pool of light spilling from and open doorway. The kitchen it looked like. The older man was whistling off-key as he washed dishes in the sink. Sam raised his bow, but Dean immediately put a hand on it and shook his head. Making a ‘y’ with his hand Dean shook it vigorously. Sam grit his teeth but fell back to stay as told.

Dean slinked forward stealthily, but he was still two feet away when the oldest Bender turned saying, “Lee, took you long enough—”

The old man reacted quickly, blocking Dean’s first blow and knocking the knife from Dean’s hand. Sam moved forward raising his bow again but reluctant to shoot. Dean was faster, still having an element of surprise. He grabbed a small kitchen knife from the sink and sunk it into Papa Bender’s forearm before landing a solid hit to the man’s throat to cut off his choked yell. Bender coughed stumbling forward and giving Dean the opportunity to slam his head into the cupboard. Dean caught the man as he fell, wrapping his arms around Bender’s head in a chokehold and squeezing tight. Bender struggled weakly but Dean simply rode it out tightening his grip. He held on several moments after the other man stopped struggling then stood and let the man fall to the floor with a muffled thud.

Breathing hard Sam spun at a sound behind him. He raised the crossbow ready to fire but froze at the young girl staring at him in shock. Her gaze flit past him to her father, lying motionless in the kitchen, and her eyes narrowed. She snarled and lurched forward arms outstretched. Sam stumbled back, finger still locked on the trigger, unable to pull.

Wind rushed past Sam on the right and then Dean was there swinging a large iron pan at the girl’s head. A dull thwack resounded through the room, and the girl fell to the floor in a heap, nose bloody and forehead cut. She’d be feeling that when she woke up.

Dean dropped the pan with a clatter and rushed to the tray of keys, digging through quickly and pocketing what Sam assumed was the keys to the Impala, before moving to another tray of knives and picking through. Sam had no idea what Dean thought he was looking for but covered is brother all the same.

A few minutes later Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Need to find the last one.”

“What about the others?” Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. “Don’t worry about them. They’ll be out for a while.”

Sam cast a glance at the still forms of the girl and father. “I wasn’t talking about them. The others you wanted to come back for,” he explained narrowing his eyes at Dean’s slip up. “You never wanted to come back for others did you?”

Dean rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. He strode back the way they had come, all attempts at stealth gone now. Kicking open the first door he came to Dean sheathed his blade and withdrew his gun. He cleared the room before moving to the next, kicking it open as well with an ungodly clatter.

“Dean. What are you doing?”

Dean kicked in the last door, ensuring that all the cages were empty and gave a short nod. Sam froze at shout echoing down from the kitchen and Dean turned towards it grinning. “Show time.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed hurrying after his brother. Dean pulled a small silver blade from his pocket as he strode back into the room connected to the kitchen. Jared was crouched over the little girl gently shaking her. He spun around as Dean stormed into the room but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the blade Dean sent sailing straight for his shoulder. Jared cried out in pain, stumbling back.

Dean grabbed Jared by the collar of his shirt and slammed him into the wall shoving the barrel of the gun up against Jared’s head. “Heya, Jared, remember me? I have a question for you.”

Sam stood back in shock, surprised at the amount of violence Dean was dolling out. His stomach twisted and he instinctively hung behind Dean, keeping a apprehensive eye on the girl and older man.

Dean pulled his arm back delivering a hard blow to Jared’s jaw. He let go of Jared’s collar letting the man sag to the floor before pulling the blade from the man’s shoulder harshly and shoving it into Jared’s line of sight. “What happened to the man you took this from!” he growled.

It took Sam a moment to realize the bloodied knife was Dad’s. “Is that Dad’s blade?” Sam asked, “Dean, is that Dad’s?”

Dean ignored him in favor of demanding an answer from Jared by slamming the grip of the gun into Jared’s face. “Answer me! Where is he!”

Jared laughed and spit a mouthful of blood to the side. “Dead. We killed him, hunted him down just like everyone else.”

Sam choked, quickly looking to Dean. After all this, these sick people had killed Dad? But Dean was smiling grimly and shaking his head. “I don’t buy your act, friend. Let’s try again,” he said pressing the blade into Jared’s throat and the gun harder against Jared’s temple. “ _Where_ is he?”

“I told you, he’s dead,” Jared spat.

Dean scoffed and, before Sam could protest, slammed the knife down into Jared’s thigh. Jared yelled in pain, cutting it off into a groan, breathing harshly through his mouth. “You little bastard,” he gasped.

Dean sneered and twisted the blade a little causing Jared to moan. “One more time. I saw your sick wall of pictures. Some of those are pretty darn recent but one really important one seems to be absent. So I’m going to ask nicely _one more time_. Where the Hell is he?”

Jared leaned forward breathing tightly in pain and sticking with his answer. “Dead.”

Dean clenched his jaw and wrenched the knife around, tearing a hoarse yell from Jared’s throat. Sam flinched, taking a step backwards. He wanted to find Dad, he did, but this was a little too much. “Dean,” he said, mouth dry and leaden feeling. “Dean, stop.”

Dean twisted the knife further, slower now to inflict the maximum amount of damage and pain. “Tell me what you did with him and I’ll end your miserable life quickly. Continue to lie and I’ll keep going. I can do this all day. And when I’m done I’ll feed you to your pets,” Dean threatened. “So do not mess with me.” He yanked the blade out only to plunge it into the other thigh and give it a cruel twist.

Jared screamed again and gasped out, an expression of terror donning his dirty features, “Okay, okay, he got away! We caught him and tried to hunt him and he got away. I dunno where he went after that but we never saw him again. I swear. I swear.”

Dean clenched his jaw and stared at Jared a long moment before standing up and keeping a strong hold on the blade, abruptly dislodging it from Jared’s thigh. Jared howled, curling protectively towards his legs and shouting a string of profanity at Dean as he walked away uncaringly cleaning the blade on his pant leg. He slid it into his belt and bent to gab a container of gasoline from the corner of the kitchen, twisting the cap off with a flick of his wrist.

Sam darted after his brother who was now dumping the can of gasoline over the kitchen and room as he walked through continuing on down the hallway a little bit. “Dean, what are you doing?”

Dean ignored him. Jared stared after them with wide eyes. “What are you doing? Don’t! You can’t! You said if I told you…” he stammered out sounding vaguely panicked.

Dean’s expression remained empty as he lit a match and flicked it into a puddle of gas flames flaring up brightly. “I lied,” he said grabbing Sam’s arm and dragging him down the hallway to the exit of the building. Sam felt the heat of the inferno licking at his back, and Jared began screaming again as the fire spread toward him.

Sam jerked on Dean’s hold repeating his earlier question. “Dean, stop. What are you doing? He’s going to die in there.” He’d threatened to kill the Benders himself, threatened that Dean would kill them all even more, and he’d meant it in the abstract hypothetical kind of way. He wanted them dead, but now that Dean was _actively_ killing them—and not with a quick bullet to the head but leaving them to slowly burn up in flames—Sam’s stomach was clenching uncomfortably and his head was spinning. Killing humans, that wasn’t what they did. That was the one thing Dad had continued to shelter him and Dean from. In four years Sam had never once killed a human; Dad had, but never Sam. And there was only that one desperate, crazed drifter that Dean had killed quick, with an arrow to the brain.

And this, this was much harder to swallow, made so much more so by Dean’s apparent apathy.

“Kinda the point, Sammy,” Dean replied once again grabbing onto Sam’s arm and pulling him through the hallways. Sam staggered past Lee’s body just as Jared started screaming behind him. Smoke was filtering through the hallways as Dean pushed the door open to the outside finally releasing his iron hold on Sam’s wrist.

Sam stumbled to a halt turning around to stare at the building going up in flames behind him. “Dean,” he said mouth dry and tongue heavy as he started after Dean again. “Dean we can’t leave him in there! And the others! Dean!”

Dean stopped, rounding on Sam with a suddenness that had Sam tripping back. “What do you propose we do, Sammy? Huh? Leave them alive to pick off any more unlucky survivors? Let them continue hunting, killing, and eating? Leave them for someone else to deal with? There’s no law anymore, Sam! No lawyers, no cops, no goddamned consequences for people like them except what they get from others!” Dean sucked in a deep breath, leaning closer and lowering his tone, eyes hard and face grimly questioning like he actually wanted Sam to respond but knew he wouldn’t. “We let them live and they’ll just go right on killing,” he whispered. “There’s too much death in this world already; we don’t need more from our own kind. It’s an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth now. They killed a lot of people. Now it’s their turn to burn.”

Sam stared at him slack jawed, almost unable to absorb what Dean had just said. It was sour tasting and difficult to accept, but Dean was right. The Benders were murderers and there was nothing in this world to do but put them down like sick dogs.

Dean clenched his jaw, looking like he still expected retaliation from Sam, but grabbed Sam’s arm again, tugging him to follow once he realized it wasn’t coming. “Where are we going?” Sam asked almost afraid of another longwinded, half-shouted speech.

Dean pulled him along faster, only answering vaguely. “To get our stuff. We gotta go.”

“Go where?”

Dean didn’t halt, increasing his pace to nearly jogging, and once more, pinning Sam with his intense gaze, expression incredulous. “You heard him, Sammy. Dad’s still alive. And we gotta find him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found at [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


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